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1.9^
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POEMS:
BY
MRS. ANNA MARIE SPAULDING.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY JAMES MILLER,
(8IT0OK88OB TO a 8. PBANOIB A 00.,)
522 BROADWAY.
1866. :-:5r'- A/
THE NIW YORK
PUfrLIC LllRlM
9766t5A
A -ru-S., LENOX AN»
Twi^N FOUrDATIOWa
& 1838 L
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 13«5,
By JAMES MILLER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.
f
Anderbom 3c Rahsat, PkYmtkxs,
**!!•? Frankfort Street, N. Y.
TO
CHAKLES K. LANDIS, ESQ.,
OF VINELAND, N. J.,
THIS VOLUME
IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED
BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND,
ANNA MARIE SPAULDING.
Kind, generous friend 1 my heart was sadly thrilling
With many songs, imprisoned, long unsung,
And memory's fields with unmarked graves were filling-
Graves of dear hopes to which ambition clung.
^ Then you the joy-bells for these hopes set ringing—
Though weary fate had bade me see them die—
,jj And I the sweet tune of my dream am singing,
• — . Though my best thovghtSy uncaught, have passed me by.
cr>
^yj But you have caught the air my soul is singing,
uu And you have seen my thought-birds glancing past
^ And back to me your generous hand is bringing,
If not the dead, the rescued hopes at last.
VniELjijn), N. J., 1864.
V
PREFACE.
As this volume is merely an olio of un-
connected poems, written as suggested by
passing events, it was impossible to arrange
its contents with reference to date or merit.
To classify them with regard to similarity of
subject was almost as difficult, but has been,
at least, attempted; which accounts for some
little poems written in childhood being found
among those of later date. Very many of
the pieces were composed at an early age, a
number of which would have been excluded,
had the arrangement been entirely my own.
Few of any date were written expressly
for publication, though many have appear-
ed in print. Had they been penned under
the restraint of such design, they might
have been more studied in style, but less
natural in spirit. As it is, these little poems
6 , PREFACE.
probably diflTer, in their tone of unreserve,
from others collected for publication. May
the knowledge of this kindly shield them
from criticisms which they might deserve if
offered with higher pretensions. The simple
expressions of a hearfs warm impulses do not
aspire to be classed with masterpieces of
intellect.
Why they appear in this form, I scarcely
know. In girlish days I shrunk from seek-
ing to blend my untrained voice in the proud
song of America's gifted ones. Prophetic
promises (now seemingly false) floated to
me from the future, of maturer life — of riper
intellectual powers. Since those promises
allure no longer, and "heart and strength
have failed" me in early womanhood, I part
with the dream of fame, seeking only to
realize the sweeter hope of leaving some
tangible proof of my presence in friendly
hearts and homes, when my life shall be
folded away in invisibility.
Those homes are scattered over the wide
Union — ^from the Atlantic to the Pacific —
from the shores of the northern lakes to the
strand of the Mexican gulf
Living in their memories, I shall not be
PREFACE. 7
parted wholly from the land of my purest
love; nor shall my voice cease altogether to
sing of the " flag of our pride," among whose
defenders the forms of my loved ones cluster
thick as the stars on its field of blue, and
whose every stripe has been ransomed by
the life-blood and battle-scars of heroes,
whose names were engraven on my heart
before they were seen on the "roll of
honor," or the lowlier lists of the "mus-
tered out."
ANNA MARIE SPAULDINa.
ViNELAND, N. J., October 15th, 1864.
CONTENTS.
PATRIOTIC POEMS.
PAOK
The Star-Spangled Banner 15
Our Country calla. 16
Our Sacrifice 17
Clintonette 13
Address to Company F, 62d Pennsylvania Volunteers 19
A Health 21
To a Brother in the Army on his Promotion 22
To my Father on his Birth-day 28
The Volunteer 26
To the 62d Pennsylvania Volunteers 27
Not Dead 28
To a Young Volunteer 29
Yes or No ? 80
The White Kid Gloves. 82
ToCallie 83
The Flag of our Pride ; 85
Happily Hoping 87
The Invasion 38
On 1 Brothers, on 1 40
The Union Oflferitjg * 41
I'm waiting, Harry 42
Millicent and Barbara 45
To Clinton and his Comrat'.es 47
To my Soldier Brothers 48
The Soldier's Smoking Song 50
A Soldier's Letter 61
10 CONTENTS.
PAOB
The Failed Chevrons 68
To Captain George E. Danlap 66
To Lieutenant Sample on his Promotion 66
Falmoutli Flowers 68
Out in the Storm 60
Prayer in Camp 61
Waiting for Letters from the Army 62
England 63
Lines Inscribed to Mr. S. Bass 65
Is our Flag stil! there? 67
Spring Snow 69
Lines to the Loyal 71
Hymnon the Battle-fleld 74
God will Care for Mother Now T5
Mustered out 77
The Tri-colored Neck-tie 78
The Crimson Cross 79
The Bonnie Blue Stripes 82
To my Brother in Tennessee 88
Battle-field Blossomings 84
The Southern Voice 85
The Blue Violets 86
Tlie Dead Picket 87
Afterthe Battle 90
IDYLS OF HOME.
The Old Place 92
Loved Scenes 98
Thoughts of Home 94
Dream Visit to Fruitland 95
Heart-calls for Home 98
Good-bye 99
For Ella's " Rose-bud" AlbunL 100
Keeping House 101
To my absent Mother 102
To Henry. 106
Vlneland 106
CONTENTS. 11
PAOB
Invitation to Yineland 108
Eeply to the ** Invitation to Vineland" 110
Home of my Childhood 112
EPISODES.
The Persian Maiden and her Lute 114
The Blind Italian Girl 116
Madeline 119
Honora 122
Eosa Bramble 126
Mallie 12S
Annie, of Looking-glass Prairie 137
Janette ; 142
Interlucation 145
Lyton's Lilian 146
The Unknown Grave 150
A MISCELLANY.
Margaret Miller Davidson 152
To Helen 165
To Fannie 166
To Julia 157
Je pense k vous. 158
Hal Starr 159
ToH • • • • 160
To a Lost Friend 161
To Rebecca 163
ToRia 164
Impromptu— to an Editor 166
Mary Hawthorne 167
Who is She? 168
To Mrs. Lieutenant Russell 169
To Miss May D 170
Richie's Hair 171
The Rings of Hair 172
Julie 178
12 CONTENTS.
Jessie — 1*.5
Entertained Unawares ? 16
The Golden Gate 17T
Kebecca, 179
"Light mo through" 180
SONGS OF THE HEART.
Smiles and Tears. i81
Sadness 182
Love Not ; 184
A Fragment 187
A Plaint 1B7
To Die and be forgotten 188
MyGirlhood 190
The Summer's Light 192
Sympathy 192
Yearnings. 194
The two Pictures 196
Fantasia 197
A Dream-Thought 199
At Sunset 200
Expectancy 200
Good-Night 202
My Soul ••• 203
Bury me in the evening. 206
Dark Thoughts 206
Music 208
To Jack 210
Complaining 211
The Heavy Eain 218
Farewell to my Harp 218
Watching 215
Remembering 217
Last Night 219
My Blossom 220
Bo-Peep 222
Grief. 223
Spirit-Bird 224
CONTENTS 13
PAGB
Birdie 226
A November Scene 227
Idle Hoars 229
The Passing o' the Simmer 281
Aatumnal Musings 282
In the Dark... 284
Chiming Bells 236
I have been where Jesus was. 236
Morning Prayer in School. 288
To Emily , 240
On the Ruins of Dr. Ballard's Church, St Louis. 241
Singing in Heaven 242
I am troubled 243
A Prayer 245
I know not how to die 246
Wave-Worn 249
Saved 251
The Prison Daisy 263
Laus Deo 254
My Name 265
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
Dearie 257
The little Red Shoe 268
Allie and Lillie 261
Grandfather's Darling 262
" He's coming" 264
Bonnie Winnie 266
To Anna Margaret 267
Acrostic 268
Leaf from a little Life 268
Hetty Marvyn 272
The Little Huguenot 277
A Christmas Story. 282
Christmas Eve. 284
PATRIOTIC POEMS.
The Stab Spangled Baiter.
Oh I say, can it be that the Stripes and the Stars
Now no longer shall wave o'er a part of our nation,
Unless on the field, in this saddest of wars,
It nnfurls o'er the scene of the South's desolation?
Shall the cannon's deep roar,
From the field red with gore.
Proclaim it mvst float when 'tis honored no more ?
Oh I say, shall the Star Spangled Banner thy;8 wave,
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ?
In that land once firmly nnited with this.
Our own kindred, as foes, for the conflict now
gather.
And the flag of the South unfurls in the breeze
That will linger to sigh o'er the tomb of our Fa-
ther.
It may sigh o'er his rest,
But can wake in his breast
No hope that may rescue the land he has blest.
Oh I Star Spangled Banner I Gk>d grant ye may wave
Again over Washington's birthplace and gravel
Bloomsburg, Fa., May, 1861.
16 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
OuB Country calls.
OuB Country calls I freely the call obeying,
Rally, oh 1 brothers, 'neath our banner proud I
And with a loyal will that knows no staying,
Claim e'en in death its folds, your limbs to shroud.
Our Country calls I the Stars and Stripes are trailing
Low in the dust, beneath rebellion's feet,
And many a loyal heart is inly failing
Because of captures, failures, and retreat
Our Country calls I and there is no replying,
Save in the act of rallying round her flag 1
Brave men already gone, are doing— dying —
Shall sons of Cumberland like cowards lag?
Our Country calls 1 let history tell the story
Of action prompt, in this her hour of need ;
For willing hands may gild with fadeless glory
Page after page with many a noble deed.
Our country calls I and sisters, wives, and mothers.
Count their love-jewels — ^all they have to give-
Saying alike to husbands, sons, and brothers,
" Go I for the Union must forever live 1"
Our Country calls ! then with one heart endeavor
To answer with the booming cannon roar.
Until no traitor hand uplifts to sever
The bands that should unite us evermore 1
CirifBIRLAMO Co., N. J.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 11
OuB Sacrifioe.
We give him up! we dare refuse no longer I
Our loyal hearts must hold back nothing now I
We lingered-^but it made us none the stronger
To bare to Southern bullets his young brow.
We give him up ! the prayers of a fond father
Follow him, even to the battlefield ;
And when the enemy around him gather,
His mother's Bible shall his warm heart shield.
We give him up I'hhe heart of a sad mother.
Set free, at parting, its one bird of joy,
To hover, all unseen by any other.
Around the pathway of her own brave boy.
We give him up I an only sister's blessing
Goes with him on his dark and dangerous way.
Though she alone missed the last sad caressing.
And bore alone the trial of that day.
We give him up I his brothers still remaining,
Watch the young soldier from the mountain-side,
Their youthful hearts with one high hope sustaining,
The hope that laurels all his scars may hide.
We give him up I and it may be forever I
The Flag he loves may be his winding-sheet;
The halls of home, again, may never, never,
Echo the bounding tread of his young feet.
Bat still we give him op! his boyish beauty —
His sunny eye and clustering dark-brown curls
Must glance ^and wave along the path of duty.
Where'er our Starry Banner now unfurls.
2
18 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Oh I yes, we give him up I but who can measure
The greatness of the sacrifice we make ?
Who knows the priceless value of our treasure ?
Who waits with us, to feel their full hearts break ?
BLOOMSbUKO, Fa., 1864.
CUNTONETTE.
Adapted to an Irish Melody.
When, dear Clintonette, I sigh with regret,
When remembering one afar,
I gaze on your face, and a likeness trace
To our boy who has gone to war.
Your forehead so fair, and your rich brown hair,
And eyes beneath brown arches set.
Remind me of one, who, alas I is gone —
Gone off to the war, Clintonette,
Clintonette,
Gone off to the war, Clintonette.
I look at you now, and I see his brow.
And the trick of his very frown ;
And the changeful light of his blue eyes bright,
I can see through your lashes brown.
Since he is not here, that look has grown dear.
For in absence 1 see him yet,
And love to believe the romance I weave
Around Clinton and Clintonette,
Clintonette,
Around Clinton and Clintonette.
So 1 will hope on, although he is gone.
And my head with its dream beguile ;
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 19
The light of those eyes I will doubly prize —
That frown shall be sweet as a %miU !
Your look and your tone 111 fancy his own,
Though his is so manly, my pet;
And while he's away, 'twill cheer us to say
That Clinton is like Clintonette,
Clintonette,
That Clinton is like Clintonette .
WiLUAMSPORT, Pa., 1861.
Addbess TO Co. F, 62d Pa. Vols.
Soldiers ! while ye wait, expecting
Every hour the battle-call,
Let the friendlier voice of woman
On your watchful senses fall.
From the heart of Pennsylvania,
Where the Red, the White, and Blue
Wave above the Susquehanna,
Floats this friendly voice to you.
Brothers ! when your thoughts are turning
From the old Potomac's strand.
And ye dream of Alleghany,
And Sylvania's loyal land.
Think not we are idly weeping —
Pining for the brave and true :
No ; for while the heart-rain's fedling,
Golden beams of Ho^pe break through.
We would cheer and not dishearten —
We would ever urge you on !
20 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
To Manassas, to Port Royal !
Until treason's overthrown.
Go I and may the God of Battles,
Nerve you for the fearful fight;
Trust Him, and He will sustain you,
For your cause is just and right
And there is "a mighty weapon
God commands you all to use :
It is Prayer — ^brave hearts accept it —
It were madness to refuse.
Prayer can turn the tide of battle,
It can strengthen even the strong,
It can lead you on triumphant
Till you shout the victor's song I
Use it, soldiers ; grasp this weapon —
Let it strengthen heart and hand ;
Take it with you in the conflict —
With it save your native land.
Go then, brothers, brave and loyal,
And with prayer we too will fight,
When around each family altar
We are gathered morn and night.
Go, and come again with honor,
We are weaving laurels now ;
We have smiles for every Victor,
Wreaths for every Hero's brow I
WlLLUKSPORT, Pa., 1861.
\
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 21
A Health.
^<r— Here's a health to them that's awa\
BoBKBT Birum.
Hebe^s a health to them that's away.
Here's a health to them that's away ;
A. health to our gallant CJommander-in chief,
America's idol to-day ;
A health to defenders of Laws —
A health to the loyal and tme !
And to all who support CJolamhia's cause,
And hide hy the Red, White, and Blue !
Here's a health to them that's away.
Here's a health to them that's away,
A health to the army of brave volunteers
That fight for our Country to-day !
May they bravely defend the Laws —
May deaths of the loyal be few —
May they never desert Columbia's cause.
But stand by the Red, White, and Blue !
Here's a health to all that's away,
Here's a health to aU that's away ;
A health to the soldiers and officers, aM
Who fight for the Union to-day I
May their valor preserve our Laws,
May their hearts be loyal and true.
And may all who oppose Columbia's cause.
Come back 'neath the Red, White, and Blue I
WiLUAMSPOBT, Pa., 186L
22 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
To A Brother m the Army,
ON HIS PROMOTION.
Now permit an only sister, thus a brother dear to
greet,
With affection's warmest praises, well deserved and
therefore sweet
Though upon the verge of manhood, scorning weak
and childish ways,
'lis not weakness, noble brother, to accept a wo-
man's praise.
Bravest hearts are ever gentle, sternest souls are
quick to feel,
And can thrill with deep emotion, yet defy the foe-
man's steel.
One step you have taken upward, and that step
with joy I hail,
Your young feet have gained a foothold : keep it,
brother, never fail.
Let your name become an honor to the land that
gave you birth.
Make it worthy to be spoken at the truest patriot's
hearth.
Onward! upward I be your motto; victory your
ardent prayer I
Nurse no selfish, low ambition — make your Coun-
try laurels wear.
Pennsylvania is your birth State : make her star
undimmed to shine,
And her fadeless mountain laurel yet about your
brow shall twine.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 23
And the State of your adoption, free and loyal
Illinois,
One day may delight to claim yon, and yonr com-
ing hail with joy;
For beneath the Starry Banner, that you^ve sworn
allegiance to,
Her brave sons at home have rallied, and we know
their hearts are true.
I have faith in yon, my brother! prond blood
courses through your veins.
And the name your fathers gave you was trans-
mitted free of stains ;
If their blood in many a battle flowed to keep our
banner bright.
The same spirit yon inherit, and like sire the son
will fight.
I have faith in you, my brother! and although my
cheek grows white,
I will neither faint nor falter, I will pray God speed
the Right!
Willi AM8P0RT, Pa., 1861.
To MY Fatheb, on his Birthday.
With childish and homesick yearnings.
Oh, father, my heart is laden ;
The ties of a wife and mother.
Break none of the child and maiden.
So now I turn from my children
Who gleefully round me gather,
24 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
To think of my own lost childhood—
To sigh for my absent father.
I recall the birthdays happy
When your years I told in kisses,
And I wish time might roll backward,
And give me your old caresses.
But, no! I would have the present
Enlivened with old-time pleasure,
And add to it, dearest father,
Each cherished, though newer treasure.
I long for a glad reunion —
I wait for a father's greeting,
But not until all the absent
Can join in the joyous meeting.
While on the guarded Potomac
Remains a beloved brother.
My heart can never be quiet,
Even with father and mother.
I count it a bitter delight.
Alone to be here, a stranger,
While he in the distant army
Braves death and disease and danger.
But long ere another birthday
May wanderings and wars be ended,
And we, all safely united,
Give thanks for a home defended.
WiLLiAKSFOBT, Jan. 9th, 1862.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 25
The Volunteer.
You know I love you, each and all —
I need not say I do ;
But my heart Is just as sad and sick
As if I had only Hugh.
AuoB Gabby.
YoiT know I love you, brothers all —
You know I think of you ;
But with the Volunteer, my heart
Stay8 till the fight is tliroughl
Upon my chamber floor I kneel,
All other wants forgot,
To ask that God will save him from
The soldier's common lot.
I seek my pillow but to dream
Of war, and war's alarm.
And only wake to pray again,
" God shield our boy from harm."
The sick and wounded lists I read
With palpitating heart.
And always look if his Brigade
Has in the fray borne part.
In every wild and wintry storm
That sweeps across the land.
My thoughts fly to our Volunteer,
And his true-hearted band.
You know I love you ; but you see
You are not Volunteers,
And so my love's not kept awake
By many hopes and fears.
8
b PATRIOTIC POEMS.
So, thongh I love yon, brothers all —
Though all alike are dear —
Your presence could not make me glad
Without our Volunteer.
Yon know I love yon, one and all —
Then all with me unite
In praying that our Volunteer
Shall fall not in the fight.
Join with our father when he bears
His burden to the Lord :
We must not trust his life alone
To his good gun and sword.
Cheer our sweet mother, be to her
Just like the gallant boy.
Who, months ago, his Country called
Fell treason to destroy.
And you yourselves, grow strong and brave,
The future's dark as night ;
And if the haughty English come.
Then nerve your hearts to fight I
Your hearts T know are strong enough,
But tender are your years, —
And could we send our youngest forth
To join the Volunteers?
This we will hope may never be^ —
We need not yet have fears.
But if it comes, God grant you strength
To be brave Volunteers I
Willi AKBPORT, Pa., 1862.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 2t
To THE Sixty-second Eegiment Pa. Vols.
AFTEB THE DEATH OF COL. 8. BLACK.
Anotiieb hero fallen I and we mourn his loss to-
day,
Though the cannon hooms of victory far off across
the bay.
We never saw his manly form, his strong brave
spirit's shrine.
That every eye looked on with pride, along the
battle-line ;
But, soldiers, your devotion, revealed in tidings
home.
Has taught our hearts to love him, and with you
we mourn his doom.
Brave heart ! its aspirations sleep — ^it never more
may beat —
Nor feel a victor's joy, nor thrill when conquered
foes retreat ;
And the hour we are looking for, alas I he may not
see.
For all of earth he yielded up, striving for victory.
Tried hearts I ye must have well-nigh failed to see
your leader fall.
And faltered in your thoughts when first you missed
his clarion call.
But, soldier-like, we know you suffered not your
firm young feet
To yield one blood-bought inch of earth in cowardly
retreat.
28 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Oh, brothers true! though many a sad and gory
battle-plain,
Receives a bloody baptism from the hearts of heroes
slain,
Let not a soldier-soul grow faint — ^let love of Coun-
try give
Strength to fight on, to charge and shout, " 1 he
Union yet shall live I"
And look to God, your loved commander's Father,
Friend, and Guide,
And like him, too, go fearless forth into the battle-
tide ;
Knowing whatever fate betides — whate'er may
chance you there,
God and your Country will bestow crowns you
shall ever wear.
ViNELAND, N. J., June, 1862. i
Not Dead.
Birds I let me hear you louder sing I
All voices in the chorus ring
To celebrate our joy I
The day is breaking ! light appears I
Praise God 1 the time is past for tears —
He's coming home— our boyl
Gloom hung about our hearts last night —
To-day the world is passing bright —
The darkness, it has fled !
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 29
The shrouded picture we unveil —
The lips with kisses we may hail —
Thank God, he is not dead I
From Richmond is the letter's date —
" Prisoner of war" our darling's fate —
Yet he is " safe and well."
Is't not a theme for highest praise,
That he was shielded all those days
When thousands like him feU?
"I'm coming on parole, take cheer :"
Then may we not expect him here —
Our brother, son, and guest?
Oh, sunlight, shine ! oh, glad birds, sing !
It is for no small trivial thing
We make the proud behest.
Bloom, flowers I our soldier's path to strew —
Ye evergreens bathe in the dew.
Ready to crown his head.
Waft, winds ! the proud ship up the bay —
I charge you, waves, make no delay
Now that he is not dead !
August, 1862.
To A Young Volunteer.
The friendly tear.
The word of cheer.
Cannot be shed or spoken ;
30 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
But far from here,
This will appear
Friendship's impromptu token.
We lose a friend,
But still would send,
If needftd, all we treasure ;
Our Country '11 live
If we but give
Such gifts, and without measure.
Adieu I adieu I
God go with you.
And be your shield forever,
Guiding you on.
Till Peace shall dawn ;
Deserting you — no, never I
ViMBLAND, Aug. 1862.
Yes or No?
Must I give him up, my heart?
Yes or no?
If 'tis duty bids us part.
Tell me so.
Thrice has he essayed to go-
Thrice in vain ;
Heart, how can you bear the woe
O'er again?
Is his Country calling him
In her need ?
r
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 31
K she is, these eyes must dim —
This heart bleed.
If he had his youthful health,
Td be strong —
Hope would be a mine of wealth
The year long.
Heart, why do you answer not,
Yes or no ?
K 'twere some less loved one's lot,
Should he go ?
If I merely were his friend,
Then his life
Should his Country well defend ;
But a wife —
Must she be a Spartan too,
Proud to bear
Heartaches all this fierce war through,
Double share ?
Ah I I see my duty plain.
Should he go ;
'Tis to give him up again —
Not say no.
All the while I knew it all,
I confess ;
Now I answer to the call,
Yes^ and Yes !
August, 1862.
32 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
The White Kid Gloyes.
The first time I wore them, ah I well I remember ;
I dream of it now, left alone in my chamber;
I think of the boat-ride, the drive in the carriage —
The midnight arrival — the meeting — the mar-
riage.
I see the events of that time pass before me —
I feel the same feelings again stealing o'er me ;
And sweet would it be, if, instead of this grieving.
Remembrance could lure my heart into believing
That I the past bridal day over was living.
Again to ray heart's friend this heart and hand
giving.
Those gloves I I had laid them away with old treas-
ures,
That like them were fragrant with thoughts of
past pleasures ;
I laid them away as too precious for using.
With never a thought that to-day I'd be choosing
To bring them again from the place of their keep-
ing,
To wear them, alas I when unhappy and weeping.
Ah, well! 'tis in mercy these things are with-
holden ;
For never a moment of life would seem golden,
If we on maturity's rose-colored morning
Could 3ee how the future is draped in deep mourn-
ing.
Those gloves! I must place them again for safe
keeping.
Away out of reach of the tea'-s I am weeping.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 33
It was strange that I wished for these trembling
fingers,
On which the last pressure of his hand yet lingers,
To feel that last pressure — that mute caressing —
In the gloves that they wore for the bridal bless-
ing.
But strange if it be, 'twas an impulse — a feeling —
That the balm of their touch I could fancy healing,
And that he would like best to cla-p them thus —
leaving
Me for his Country, consenting yet grieving.
The first time I wore them our lives were united—
The last time, how near seemed that happiness
blighted 1
But I'll lay them away with care the most tender,
Because he has gone, his best service to render,
In the bravest and truest and most loyal manner.
On, under the folds of our Star Spangled Banner 1
And if ever I wear them again, God willing.
It will be when my hand in his shall be thrilling.
When the perilous days of this war are ended,
When the dove of peace on our land has descended.
Augoft, 1862.
To Cauje.
Otjr Vineland home has lost its charm.
Now that we sit alone
Catching the echoes of alarm ;
But never that old tone, Callie !
Your own, familiar tone.
34 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Few pairs of feet are now left here,
To tread the paths you made,
Since you with manly words of cheer
The Country's call obeyed, Callie I
The Country's call obeyed.
The suns of sixteen summer years
Had set your boyish heart
Aglow with valor — void of fears —
And so we had to part, Callie 1
Ah me ! we had to part.
We have no picture of you yet,
Like Clinton's on the wall,
But there's no danger we'll forget.
It hangs in Memory's hall, Callie I
It hangs in Memory's hall.
- The little lips you love to kiss.
All day your name repeat —
Poor things I the world is all amiss —
Life's bitter now, not sweet, Callie I
All bitter, and no sweet. /
The harp of household harmony
Has broken one more string.
Since you can no more merrily
Among us laugh and sing, Callie 1
Whistle, and laugh, and sing.
What dreary changes years have wrought I
I knew not, brother mine.
That these dread battles must be fought,
In " days of auld lang syne," Callie 1
In " days of auld lang syne."
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 35
The curly tangles of your hair
(Then, just the hue of gold)
I knew must cease to he my care, *,
"When you had grown this old, Oallie I
Full sixteen hright years old.
But I no soldier-cap could see
Prepared to press them down,
Soon as their sunshine came to be
Shaded with chestnut brown, Oallie !
Shaded with chestnut brown.
But thus it is, md now we wait
The dawn of peaceful days,
Hoping for you the happy fate
Of hailing their glad rays, Oallie !
Their beautiful glad rays.
YiNELAMD, N. J.
The Flag of our Piode.
FOR CO. B., TWENTY-FOURTH REGT., N. J. VOLS.
-Air— "Star Spangled Banner."
The Flag of our pride we are planting once more
On the bluflfe, in the dells of the proud old Do
minion,
And here on the rushing Potomac's wild shore
We will guard with our lives the dear emblem
of Union.
The artillery clash, and the cavalry dash,
The roll of the thunder and lightning flash.
36 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Alike are unheeded, if we may but wave
The bright emblem of Union, the Flag of the
Brave 1
Our strong hands are lifted with rifle and sword,
Against traitorous hosts and the ills of Seces-
sion;
Our war-cry is this — ^the old Union restored,
As our forefathers gave it, unstained by oppres-
sion;
Our allegiance is true, and the oath we renew,
As we rally to fight for the Red, White, and Blue ;
All perils unheeded, till once more shall wave
From Maine to the Gulf States the flag of the
brave 1
Oh, the Star Spangled Banner! Oh, flag of our
pride I
When the bright day shall dawn that unites us
a nation,
Virginia shall hail thee, her star-gleaming guide,
And her war-blasted fields shall forget desolation.
But until then her shore shall be reddened with
gore.
For the Flag and the Union we've sworn to re-
store.
No perils are heeded, through all we must wave
The bright emblem of Union, the flag of the
brave !
Oh I shades of our Fathers, whose blood bought
the land, —
The same God whom they trusted, we ask for
direction,
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 3t
And under His guidance we'll march or we'll
stand,
With unwavering faith to restore our connection.
For restore it we must, if in God is our trust.
Though victory may smile as we lie in the dust ;
But death is unheeded, if we may but wave
Over all the old Union the flag of the brave I
NOYBMBEB, 1862.
Happily Hoping.
A LONG and lonesome year
I enter, half in fear.
Without my guide through darkness groping ;
Peering out in the gloom.
Where ghostly shadows loom.
Yet sweetly hoping,
Happily hoping.
Did I not hear him say
To me, that parting day,
With smiles, " There's reason, love, in hoping ;
So think when I am gone,
'Twas duty urged me on,
Still fondly hoping.
Happily hoping."
I gave the hand I wed
To grasp the sword, instead
Of holding mine : I gave it, hoping
That one so free from stain,
Might not be given in vain ;
I gave it hoping.
Happily hoping.
38 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
I am, since he is gone,
In every sense alone ;
Without my guide, I tire in groping —
I falter, hut still say,
Viewing the end alway,
" He'll find me hoping.
Happily hoping."
Havthorndbn, Sept. 1862.
The Invasion.
They come ! they come ! across the Maryland bor-
der —
Across the old Potomac's guarded shore ;
" Aggressive warfare" is the fearful order —
The North land now must drink its share of gore.
Friends have been dreaming, while the foe was
wary —
They waited for salvation from the Lord —
As if He'd guard our mountain land and prairie.
With His right arm, without the unsheathed
sword.
Alas ! my country I blood, and withovt measure^
Must flow to wash our national sins away;
And all our gold, and all our human treasure.
We must give up I 'tis not enough to pray !
Thus far our people have been vainly proff'ring
Their wealth and lives — ^far more than asked
for — free I
Fanatic hands have marred the loyal oflfring,
With deeds done in the name of Liberty.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. S9
Our generals plan and fight for their own glory,
Hoping the Presidential chair to gain,
And issue orders meant to live in story.
While nameless heroes lie among the slain.
And the few noble ones of our hearts' choosing,
That brave men follow proudly to the field —
Because of Government the means refusing —
Have faced the foe and been compelled to yield.
Our president, whose goodness all men honor.
Still must bear blame for this our Country's woe,
For there were hands raised to uphold our Banner,
And blindly he refused to let them go.
Our Congress, too, their holy trust abusing,
Undo the weary work our arms have done —
Their golden opportunities misusing,
Marring with hell-bom schemes each victory won.
Oh ! that the people were this hour uprising.
Self-called to end the fratricidal strife —
Waiting no more for Cabinet devising —
Waiting no more for useless loss of life.
If other than I am in sex or station,
I'd show the loyal all these high-place crimes,
And cry aloud to the endangered nation —
Trust not the false or hlind, these perilous times 1
What if my words should find for me a prison.
If they took root in loyal hearts, and true ?
Or like the sun of heaven, when first arisen.
Could light them safely all the dark way through ?
40 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
As well in prison might a true ^eart languish,
For striving to nnmask a secret foe,
As to meet death, slow-poisoned with the angnish
'Twould feel, a Country's ruin to foreknow.
YiNBLAHD, N. J., Sept., 1862.
On ! Brothers, on !
^<r--«HaU to the Chiel"
On I hrothers, on I still undaunted and fearless,
March through the perils hlockading the way ;
We nmst he resolute, prayerful, and tearless,
Fou must he willing and strong for the fray I
Strengthen then heart and hand,
Make one more battle-stand —
Fling high the banner now trailed in the dust I
Down with the traitor ** bars,"
Up with the Union " stars" —
On then, oh 1 brothers, in God be your trust !
On 1 brothers, on 1 till the strongholds are taken —
On I until Richmond no traitor can hide I
On ! till the heart of Secessia is shaken.
On 1 till defeat shall have humbled her pride.
Strike, then, with wiUing hand.
Fight for our " Father-land"—
Loyally venture — ^raise hope from the dust I
Down with the traitor " bars" —
Up with the Union " stars" —
On ! then, oh ! brothers, in God be your trust !
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 41
On I brothers, on I tp the battles before yon !
On ! through the perils blockading the way I
On I with the banner of Washington o'er yon,
True to the Country of Webster and Clay 1
Strike for the Union, then.
Fearless and loyal men I
Fling high the Banner now trailed in the dust I
Down with the traitor bars,
Up with the Union stars —
On I then, ohl brothers, in Grod be your trust!
January, 1863.
The Union Offebing.
The following lines were snggested by the receipt of a contribn-
t!on in gcUd^ from a friend in California, to aid in ftirnishing a b«x
of delicacies for the sick and wounded soldiers in Yirginia.
"Accept this gold," wrote the patriotic donor, "as a Union
offering. Accept it for the sake of the loved ones who are in the
war."
Bright, shining gold I sent on a patriot mission,
From loyal California's sunset shore ;
Sent with the simple, beautiful petition,
" Accept it for the sake of those at war I"
Pure gold I no arithmetic rule may measure
The value of the gift that came so far !
No miser ever kept his hoarded treasure
As I shall this, for loved ones in the war I
'Tis Union gold I covering its face in glory,
I count with joy each lustrous Union Star !
They speak Columbia's immortal story —
They tell why all my loved ones are at war !
42
PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Tis Uyal gold! the Eagle on it mounted.
Bends not above the traitor's crimsonbar
Whereon the stolen stars rebellion counted,—
The stars for which onr braves have gone to war.
'^Kf^*^* flowed unasked from patriot coffers,
Flowed freely to the need it saw afar-
Flowed with the glorious words of this sweet offer-
Accept It for the sake of those at war I"
Tis gold that shaU be reckoned with each token
Held sacred as a soldier's battle-scar I
And fain would I forever save unbroken
This Union offering m Dimnion warl
Thanks for the gold I oh, loyal-hearted giver
Child of our Union's undimmed evening sterl
Hope speeds fresh arrows from her shining quiver
At sight of Union Offerings in the war I '
Washikgtok's Birthday, 1863.
I'm waiting, Habby.
I'm waiting at the door, Harry,
And looking down the street,
Just as I did the summer noon,
When your departing feet
Their last track left upon the sand.
Their last sounds on the air,
That died together with my words
Of blessing and of prayer.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 43
I'm thinking as I look, Harry,
How only this last Jnne,
We came together np the road
You've passed again so soon.
I'm thinking what we thought of then.
Our prospects, hopes, and plans.
When first we saw how like 'twas here
To our lost prairie lands.
We told each other then, Harry,
How home-like it woidd seem, —
We did not know a trumpet-call
Would wake us from the dream ;
We knew that for your Country's sake
You had enlisted twice.
But when the Crovemment said " wait,"
We thought it must suffice.
I dare not wish you back, Harry,
Unless the war should cease ;
I only pray that we shall hail
Together, friends and peace.
I strive to cheer my heart all day
With looking for that joy.
Asking of God that no great grief
Shall cloud it or destroy.
And so I wait with hope, Harry,
With more of hope than fear.
Although I count the creeping hours,
Not always in good cheer ;
Because you know I cannot be
As happy while alone,
As I shall be when you come back
To claim again your own.
44 PATRIOTIC POEMS
The home we thought to make, Harry,
The Dew home by the hill,
Lies all uncleared and desolate,
Untenanted and still.
The little house grows weather-stained,
The underbrush grows tall,
And nothing pleasant can be seen,
Save wild flowers of the fall.
But you are doing now, Harry,
A nobler work by far,
And I can wait for home and you,
Until the end of war.
Home would not be a home for me,
However rich and grand,
If built by hands that would not strike
For our dear native land.
You know that I shall wait, Harry,
If Heaven spares my life.
With strength and courage, worthy of
A Union soldier's wife.
Know, that the fragile form you feared
Without your strength would fall.
Shall be upheld by patriotism
And faith, as by a wall.
Then let it cjieer your heart, Harry,
To know that I am strong :
And never fear I'm growing weak.
Because time seems so long.
But strike for Union and for Peace —
For rights of every State —
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 45
Then haste I receive the crown of love
I'm wreathing while I wait,
October, 1862.
MiLLICENT AND BaRBABA.
The mansion on the hill —
The cabin hj the rill —
Beneath the same grief-cloud were lying :
Fair MiUicent, the bride,
With sorrow conquering pride,
O'er all her "Hair
Roamed, wildly weeping.
Mournfully sighing.
Her sweetly tuned guitar,
Uncared for since the war,
She could not touch, 'twere useless trying ;
The poets she loved best
In hours of happy rest,
(Eis gift) were left.
Dust on them heaping,
As time went flying.
The blossomy cheek grew white —
The heaven-blue eye lost light —
Her step but echoed her hope dying.
She walked in wild alarm,
Reaching out for the arm
Once wound aroimd
Her, waking, sleeping,
On that relying.
1
46 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
And so she pined away, '
Picturing a funeral day
When death Tier tie should be untying —
When crimson tides 6^ war,
Should gulf her guiding star,
The pride, the guide
Of brave men, — reaping
Glory in dying.
Barbara, the lowlier one,
Dwelling beside the run.
That belt-like round the hill was lying,
Made for her hope no grave.
But set her will to brave
The weight, that fate
Gave to her keeping,
Without such sighing.
The cabin, plain and small,
And garden spot, were all
She had — round these her thoughts were tying ;
And they grew doubly dear.
Seeming to keep anear.
Each nook, the look
That sent light creeping
When clouds were flying.
She gathered strength from this.
And dreaming of the kiss
He gave, to her last words replying.
She went about her work.
Letting no shadows lurk
Upon the one
Hope she was keeping.
To hush all orying.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 41
The lady of the hill
Bj chance came to the rill,
In one of her sad honrs of sighing,
And then of Barbara learned
How strength ofliea/rt is earned —
How tall a wall
Eer will was heaping,
Of hope undying !
Hawthobndkk, 1862.
To CUNTON AOT> HIS COMRADES.
[^ Sister, we who fought together, until separated, wounded and
imprisoned at the last of the 'Seven days battles,^ have now naet,
safe and well, on the eve of another fight. Send us a poem of con-
gratulation and encouragement."— iE&B^ac^/rom a i^Uer.}
CoMBADES, hail ! I send jon greeting —
You are brothers all of mine ;
Let me joy then in your meeting,
Though it be in battle-line.
I had sorrow in your parting.
Amid cannon, smoke, and blaze —
Night and day tears would be starting,
Thinking of the " Seven Days."
My heart kept beside you ever,
Down the " on to Richmond" road ;
Beating with your own forever,
Bleeding when your brave blood flowed.
Every pain your wounds were feeling,
Every grief your true hearts bore,
Thought and pity kept revealing —
For you, wounding my heart's core.
48 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Now all safe you meet together,
Paths of peril to retrace —
Streams to ford and storms to weather,
And the foe agam to face.
May the God who still has guarded
Each of you from death thus far,
Keep the fatal bullets warded
From your lives all through the war.
But one boon I ask now, brothers!
On the eve of one more fray.
More important than all others —
Look to Jesus 1 watch and pray I
May you all, each brave defender
Of your Country's sacred right,
Only to your God surrender,
But be victors in the fight I
Then if comes another parting,
Ere the dreaded battle's o'er,
Brothers I let it be your starting
To an angel- guarded shore.
Havtuorkden, Dec. 1862.
To MY Soldier Brothers. ,
[**The poem you sent at our request was received, and read as
we were drawn up in lino of battle. The boys said fervently, ' God
bless herp and when marching to the fi*ont, S cried out,
* Come on, boys 1 never let our fighting sister say we failed to do
our duty.' " — Extract from a letter.']
In the mouth of rebel cannon.
In the thickest bullet-hail.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 49
Truly brave, ye did not falter,
StroDg in heart, ye did not fail I
Oh I the highest praise of woman
Seems a poor and mean reward,
For the brave who use with valor
Either bayonet or sword.
Like the tide of old Atlantic
Dashing on Virginia's shore.
Rolls my love-tide, unknown heroes,
Round your steps forevermore I
*' Never let our fighting sister
Have the shameful words to say.
That we failed to do our duty
In the battle's front to-day."
Proud am I that in the storming.
All uncovered in its rain,
Earnest words were bravely spoken,
That I prayed for, not in vain I
Thus, brave brothers, all together.
Gallant heroes that ye are.
Deeds were done that might add lustre
^ To the wearer of a star.
Oh I beloved ones, let me point you
With unfailing strength of love.
To the path of duty onward !
Over hills that lead above.
Let, oh I let the God of battles
Be your Leader best beloved —
4
60 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Eim^ no earthlj power can hinder,
' He can never be removed.
Hitherto His death-proof armor
Has your perilled lives encased,
And the poisoned onp Hu mercy
—Has not suffered you to taste.
Oonrage, then, oh, loyal spirits !
Still hope on, oh, soldiers brave ;
If you but unfurl God's Banner,
You may conquer^ He may «atj« /
Hawthormden, Dec. 1862.
The Soldier's Smoking Song.*
^ir— "The days when we went gipsying."
'Mid war's alarms we rest on arms.
Between each fierce affray.
To find in rest the strength to breast
The foe some future day ;
And while we wait, uncertain fate,
In battle's stem array.
Wrapped in a cloak of happy smoke ) -Qq^q^X
We whiff our cares away. )
'Twas sweet beside Potomac's tide.
In camp on Miner's Hill,
But yet more sweet since our worn feet
Left Malvern and Gaines' Mill ;
• Sent with a present of pipes and tobaeco.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 61
At- Aquia Creek, down Chesapeake,
Since Fredericksburg's lost day,
Onlj the cloak of happy smoke
Can hide our cares away.
On marches long, that tu*e the strong,
The faithful pipe we fill ;
The weary tramp, the idle camp,
Both find us smoking still.
By hardships worn, how could be borne
The ills that throDg our way.
If in a cloak of happy smoke
Care was not whiffed away I
Our life is rough, but while we puff
The pipe that friends do fill,
Our smoking song, each grateful tongue
TJn wearily will trill ;
And Richmondward each gem and sword
Shall point, the while we say —
There in the cloak of hattle smoke
Shall Union gain her sway I
YiKKLAiTD, Jan., 1863.
. *. A Soldier's Leiter.
Pu-aphrase of a letter hastily written in pencil, bofure, during,
and after the action at Fredericksburg.
Dbar wife, it is a battle-eve—
In line our host are forming.
Ready to catch the word that shall
Inaugurate the storming.
62 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
The burnished rifle barrels flash,
Swords, bayonets, are gleaming,
And over all our Eagle looks —
O'er all our Flag is streaming.
And now that danger's drawing near,
Our God draws even nearer ;
We know no fear, though in this hour
Earth's treasures grow still dearer ;
But stand upheld by spirit strength,
God's smile around us shining :
Oh, easy task! thm armed, to face
The shore that foes are lining.
We marched ; the enemy refused
The city to surrender ;
Our troops prepared to storm its walls —
Each foe was its defender.
The streets were blocked with armed brigades —
Pickets the outposts guarding :
Our hosts in battle-line rolled on, —
Then came the fierce bombarding.
Flames wreathed the tallest city spire,
Artillery death was dealing,
And at the crossings of the streets
The. life-blood lay congealing.
Yet on we marched, till, firm in line.
We to the front were stepping.
Abreast the storm of grape and shell
That down our ranks went sweeping.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 53
But all in vain our heroes fell —
The crest we could not ca/rry ;
And though we fought, each brave heart knew
'Twas only death to tarry ; —
A soldier's death amid defeat,
Without the soldier's glorj ;
A patriot's death upon a field
To be disgraced in story.
The sorrow fell — ^the ruin came —
Night covered us in pity —
While we, with decimated ranks,
Stole from the ravaged city.
And now the battle-storm has passed —
The life-blood ceases flowing —
'Tis well the proud, heroic dead
Sleep on, the end unknowing.
Thank God I my love, that I am saved
To serve my Country longer I
Though wounded, my unconquered heart
Shall mak^ my arm but stronger I
The Faded Chevbons.
I KNOW of no keepsake more precious than they —
/ braided them on, and you wore them away ;
The sad tears that fell left them none the less blue,
But battles and tempests have tarnished their hue.
^4 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
I knew the strong arms that they graced would be
brave I
I knew that wherever our banner should wave
E'en over red rivers of warm battle- wine '
Those arms would be lifted, those chevrons would
shine!
But duty now finished, they come back to be
Warm welcomed, caressed, and safe treasured by
me! ^
Through the perilous fight-in storming the crest.
They were carried by one to whom action was
rest!
They were borne to the front, a signal of cheer !
They shone at the post when the danger drew near ;
A^d now that the wearer, new honor has gained.
Thnoe welcome, worn chevronsi more welcome
thus stained 1
E'en the bine silken stitches that festenod them
The sameazurethreadsthat my needle had drawn,-
TT,lT"rt^ ^J^^ ^ '^ gentleness left, ^
To talk to the heart whom the war has bereft •
To speak of the day when the trial Wan- '
To remind of the field where the blood-rivers ran.
And to say, wrth mute eloquence, words of ch^^
"Oh, hope on forever ! he yet may be here 1»
May the higher insignia bravery gained
To cover the womid where the musket balls rained
Grow dm. Jd.e the chevrons, yet brighten wS
On fresh fields of glory, where'er duty leads I
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 65
My heart speeds you onward I I ask yoa to go I
For Country I for fame I for the fall of the foe I
It wounds me to say it — ^it thrills me with fears —
Still, still I repeat it, albeit with tears I
January, 1863.
To Capt. George E. Dunlap.
Oh I friend of our Country, brave foe of its foes I
The tint of true glory around your name glows ;
The lips that I love and are never untrue,
Award you the praises I know to be due ;
And, oh ! if my pen fitting praises could frame.
How soon would I garland with glory your name 1
Ah I many a tale of the war have I read,
And baptized in the drops that my full heart haa
bled!
But to few was accorded that greatness so rare,
That circles with pity and girdles with care
All comrades in arms, be they lowly or high,
Because all are equal in da/ring to die !
E'en now in forced absence your heart wanders
back,
Adown the long march, o'er a blood-painted track,
In search of the braves whom you gallantly led
To the field where you fought in the place of your
deadJ^
Oh! long will the living remember and tell
That act of their leader, loved warmly and well.
♦ Capt Danlap took the gun and cartridge-box from the first
man of his company who fell, and bravely filled the places of offi-
cer and private at one and the same time.
66 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Though never again may you lead on, and cheer
True hearts that are holding your memory dear,
The thought of your marching in sickness and
pain,
The thought of your scorning to halt or complain,
Will quicken their steps, should they wearily lag.
And strengthen their hold on the "star-flowering"
flag!
Oh I Mend of our Country, and friend of its
friends!
Be with them in heart then, until the war ends.
Still follow them onward, with hope and with
prayer ;
Ketain for them ever a generous care ;
For they, as a watchword, henceforward will
claim
Their war-worn commander's inspiring name I
April, 1863.
To Lieut. Sample, on his Promotion.
My heart, awhile forgetting pain,
Leaps up to wish you joy.
And carols hush the sad refrain
I chant so much, dear boy !
For thrills of sympathetic pride
My life veins all pulsate,
Since you, brave soldier, battle-tried.
My brother's cherished mate.
Have reached a path more high and wide,
Where fame and honor wait.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 5*1
I wish you joy, through perils past,
In danger's awful face :
In front of fiery columns, massed
In death's own chosen place,
Your untried feet were called to stand,
Your musket took its aim,
And leaf by leaf, your daring hand
Gathered in battle flame
The wreath that wins you this command.
This honor, place, and name I
I wish you joy, for countless feet
Marched in last summer's sun.
Eager as yours, the foe to meet.
Whose martial deeds are done ;
And friends at home the laurels keep —
Won, never to be worn
By heads that all unpillowed sleep
Where battle-flags were borne ;
While you, befitting honors reap —
Live, work, and may return 1
Success attend you, gallant heart,
Our prayers be still your shield ;
God be with you in every part
You take upon the field 1
Keep from dishonor's stain the sword,
By patriotism won ;
Unsheathe it on the battle sward.
Bare it where blood-tides run ;
With it Columbia's honor guard.
As fits a loyal sonl
Then hail, youug hero, and farewell I
The kindest words must cease,
68 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
And tenderest ones the heart must swell
Untold, until there's peace.
Adieu I adieu 1 I bid you go,
Gird on the shining blade :
Now only patriot joy I know
To see you thus arrayed ;
You only feel Columbia's woe,
And scorn to be afraid.
Febraary, 1863.
Falmouth Flowees.
Faib flowers ! a soldier's hand, his sword forget-
ting,
Shook from thy leaves the wild tears of the storm,
And gathered thee before the sun's sad setting.
Away from marching feet and war's alarm.
Gathered thee from the fair Vii'ginia valley —
From Rappahannock's doubly guarded shore,
Where Union soldiers still undaunted rally
In bold brigade, and proud unconquered corps.
Yes, 'twas a soldier's hand tliat turned to gather
The frail memorials of far happier springs.
But 'twas the heart of husband and oi father
That drew the warrior down to tender things.
And while he sought them, in green mosses hidden,
And bound tbe blossoms in a bright bouquet,
One tender tear stole down his cheek unbidden —
A tribute to the loved ones far away.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 59
And over each he bent with fond caressing —
On each a conseoratmg kiss was pressed —
While with the richest of his store of blessing,
The gift of Southern flowers, the soldier blest.
Oh, Falmonth flowers 1 spring buds of pink and
amber I
The sweetness of those kisses lingers yet —
The fragrance of the blessing fills the chamber
Wherein the soldier's cherished gift is set.
Virginian blossoms ! free from her dishonor —
Sacred are ye because of that lone tear I
The eye it dimmed is fixed upon a banner
Whose guardsmen weep for love, but not for fear.
Most precious are the tears shed by the daring —
Most prized at home the true love of the brave-
Most treasured, gifts from those whose fearless
bearing
Wins honor where the flags of battle wave.
Soldiers, beloved ! may all, the sword resiguing.
Come safely in from this dark night of storm.
To see the sud of Peace unclouded shining
On flowers where no feet march at war's alarm!
ViNBi^jUrp, April, 1863,
60 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Out, IN THE Storm.
[" A few days ago, about one bandred sick soldiers were sent to
Falmouth, to be transported to Aquia Creek, but there being no
cars ready, the poor, sick, suffering men were compelled to lie oat
all night on the platform at the Depot, In the rain, without shel-
ter." — Philadelphia Inq.']
All the long black night unsheltered,
O, God ! they had to lie,
Under the wild rain's baptism —
Under the starless sky 1
All the long black night uncared for,
A hundred of our brave,
Who sprang at the call of Country,
To guard it, and to save !
All voices of love and pity
Were stifled in the storm,
That pierced, like the hail of battle,
Each soldier's prostrate form 1
O Grod I must they bear such anguish?
Must dying heroes lie
At mercy of hands inhuman,
Out in the storm to die ?
Can we for the love of Country
Urge on our brave to fight.
With this fear to dampen courage —
That in the stormy night
They may lie at lonesome stations,
Pierced to the heart with pain,
Unsheltered and unprotected.
Out in the winter rain ?
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 61
Oh, yes, we must even bear it —
We must look to the end ;
But oh I our Father in Heaven,
Be thou our soldiers' friend I
Oh ! touch with a pang of pity
The hearts that are so hard ;
Oh I give to the suffering soldiers,
At least a human guard 1
February, 1863.
Prayer in Camp.
Peateb may be sweet in peaceful homes,
Where undivided households meet,
Around the altar, morn and eve.
Their pure thanksgivings to repeat.
Prayer may be sweet in God's own house,
Where reverent congregations kneel.
While upward to the mercy-seat
Ascends the worshipper's appeal.
Prayer may be sweet in any spot.
Where'er on earth that spot may be,
Whether upon the pleasant land.
Or on the blue and treacherous sea.
But oh I how sweet is prayer to him
Who can a precious moment steal.
Within the soldier's guarded camp,
To ask for pardoning mercy's seal I
PATRIOIC POEMS.
Its sweetness eveiy soldier's heart,
If he but truly seeks, may know,
And passhig sweet will be the peace
That with the tide of war shall flow.
Hawthorndbx, Feb., 1863.
Waiting for Letters from the Army.
OouNTiNO all the hours of morning
Ticking painfully away,
Wait I for my hope's meridian.
Gathering warmth in its sweet ray.
From my eyes the light is shining —
In my cheek I feel the bloom —
Wreaths of promises are twining
Round my heart's deserted room :
'Tis the last day ere the Sabbath —
I have waited all the week —
Now I know it must be coming,
To my patient heart to speak I
Through the woods the wind is breathing.
With a sound akin to sighs.
And beyond last summer's clearing,
Dim, deceiving shadows rise ;
Hark ! upon the leaf-strewn pathway
Plainly now I hear steps fall —
Ah I 'tis no one that can answer
To my heart's expectant call !
Pines I stop murmuring for a moment —
Idle wind, oh ! cease to play ;
Grant to me a listening stillness —
Lead no more my hope astray !
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 63
Ah ! I see the one I wait for —
Heart of mine, beat not to break !
For if hope hath no fruition,
What's to soothe while thou must ache?
There I I see the precious letter
Peeping from his pocket deep-
How my pulses thrill with pleasure I
How my thoughts triumphant leap I
Oh 1 how could my heart deceive me ?
How could Hope so falsely shine ?
Dungeon walls of doubt shut round me,
For the letter is not mine I
Satubdat noon, Feb., 1863.
England.
"Island of bliss.*^— Thomson's Sbasons.
** The hope of every other land."— Momtoohbbt.
'^IsrAND of bliss!" the poet's song
Word- paints the sunny side ;
But view the other — watch the throng,
Overshadowed by the clouds of wrong.
That rich and poor divide.
*' Island of bliss!" the great and strong
May name it so in pride.
But go the suffering poor among.
And hear how every starving tongue
The falsehood can deride !
"The hope of every other land!"
What hope of her have we f
64 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Who but "perfidious England" fanned
The flame tiiat desolates our land,
And blazes on our sea?
'Tis well the light shows how she's planned
With Slavery to agree ;
'Tis well the blaze reveals the hand,
That feeds our fire with many a brand,
To martyr Liberty!
'Twas England roused this feudal hate,
Turning the friend to foe.
Preaching at every household gate —
Loud charging every Northern State
On this crusade to go ;
Teaching one lesson, early, late,
That we naught else might know —
Foretelling ills that should await
The heart that dared to hesitate
To feel ideal woe.
Enthroned upon her "isle of bliss"
Sat she, the pharisee I
Judging of every act amiss-
Asking, " was ever crime like this.
Of Southern Slavery?"
Naming us with a sneer, a hiss.
For our barbarity —
Offering anon a Judas' kiss —
Luring us to the sacrifice —
Binding thereby the free !
For this our curse do we bequeath
To Albion, hated foe I
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 65
The sword she caused us to unsheathe,
Already meditates her death,
And vows her heart a blow ;
We curse her with our deepest "breathy
Ourse her for war and woe —
Curse her at every loyal hearth — v
Curse every rod of her green earth —
With every Might we know,
"The hope of other lands" indeed!
Three times the hope of this !
A hope that proved a broken reed —
A hope that failed in time of need,
But one no more we miss.
Columbia's heart can bear to bleed,
Immortal as it is,
Until the free again are freed ;
Turn th>en, oh I Union hosts, with speed,
'Gamst Britain's " Isle of bliss 1"
October, 1862.
Lines
Inscribed to Mr. S. Bass, on receiving from him a gift for past
kindnesses to his noble young son, who fell in the bftttle of Freder-
icksburg, Dea 18th, 1862.
Fob the sake of the brave one now dreamlesoly
sleeping
In a grave un baptized by the tears you are weeping,
I accept from your hands this unmerited token,
Of a friendship that springs from a brotherhood
broken.
5
66 PATRIOTIC POEMS. *
I accept it, oh ! friend, with a grief-subdued pleas-
ure —
Bought with blood of your blood, your life's war-
scattered treasure !
And I keep it, and pray, in the fulness of feeling.
That the; Peace born of War will bring balm for
your healing —
That the silvery brightness these clouds must be
lining,
Ere long, will your beautiful gift be outshining.
Oh I I would that tlie love we were gratefhlly keep-
ing
For the soldier, who lies on the battle-ground sleep-
ing.
Could have saved him for you, who were waiting
and yearning
For the homeward-bound tread of the never re-
turning.
Yes, I would it were so I but that step did not fal-
ter.
Till your gift to your Country was laid on its altar —
Till the form that stood firm, all the dread danger
daring.
Gave up life for the love of the Flag he was bearing,
And the dear name, engraved on this gift of your»
giving.
Was enrolled at his death in the hearts of the living.
For the sake, then, of him whom we honor, now
sleeping
Where the soldiers of Union strong guard are still
keeping.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 67
I accept, with these thanks, so imperfectly spoken,
The debt that you owed not, as friendship's sweet
token.
YuncLAMD, N. J.
Is ouB Flag still there?
The hosts of the Union were gathered below,
At the base of the Ridge, in the Tennessee Val-
ley,—
The summit was crowned with the flag of the foe.
Where the brave, but misguided, that day were
to rally.
Up the perilous height, by the banner's star-
light.
Three regiments gallantly marched to the
fight;
The death-rain was falling — clouds darkened the
air —
Li the valley was murmured, "Our Flag — is it
there ?"
Death stillness pervaded the long battle-line —
While they gazed toward the summit, half hoping,
half fearing,
Would the banner stars out of the war-cloud shine.
Or in vain did they wait their triumphant ap-
pearing?
Moments lengthened to years — ^hopes were
yielding to fears,
And soldier eyes dimmed with the dimness of
tears ;
The fearful suspense grew akin to despair —
68 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
" Oar Flag I" breathed the line, "is it there? is it
there?"
Then the daring and terrible work was done,
And the smoke of the conflict was fast disappear-
ing;
And ont of eclipse o'er the height that was won,
Shone oar bright gaiding stars with effulgence
heart-cheering ;
And the qnestion of dread, that from lip to lip
fled,
Was answered in looking to where it had led !
For gone was suspense, and subdued was despair.
As the answer resounded, "Our Flag is still
there I"
Oh I the hosts in the valley of Tennessee —
The bold handful that won the strong Ridge by
their daring —
All hearts beating time to the Flag of the Free,
The deep joy of that moment together are shar-
ing.
For the Flag that we wave is the Flag of the
Brave !
The Banner of beauty our forefathers gave I
Its stars shall shine on uneclipsed by despair —
All voices united shall own it is there I
December, 1863.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 69
Spring Snow.
" From his thick, wavy chestnut hair, I severed a single curl.
Looking upon its rich darkness, I wondered if ever the hand of
time would place among tlieir kindred tresses its threads of sil-
ver."— Vine Lodge, lUs., 1852.
Last fall he came on furlough bat a day and a halC His hair was
thickly threaded with gray, and he not twenty-one.— 1862.
Oh I words of the beautiful years gone by,
At home, in the bright summer land !
My sorrowful spirit is questioning why,
When I look under laslies scarcely dry,
These by-gones must happen at hand ;
Bygones
All registered by my own hand !
The sunshine and shadows of sixteen years
Had brightened and deepened for me,
A life that now, looking backward, appears
All cleared of the clouds that wept April tears,
As fair as a morning could be !
More fair
Than the noon of my life can be !
And he, the beautiful child at my side,
Whose summers were fewer than mine,
Stood radiant in the light of my pride.
Whose strength to the might of my love was allied,
And poured out for him like new wine I
Would Gk)d,
His life I could keep with such wine I
Away from his wavy and chestnut hair,
I had severed a single ring,
70 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Wondering if Time in his passage could dare
To place in the locks on his temples fair
The snow that life's winter must bring —
The snow
I only thought winter could bring!
Ah! that was the thought of my sixteen years,
The dream of a blossoming time ;
A hope from beyond the shadow of fears —
A heart-beam that never was dimmed by tears —
The theme of a girl's heart in rhyme.
'Tis sad
That life's prose differs so from the rhyme.
The years that have fled since that dream, how few !
Scarce time for the blossoms to fall —
Scarce time for a cloud on a sky so blue —
Scarce time for a shade the light to subdue,
Yet it dimmed and it darkened all!
One cloud
O'ershadowed and darkened it all.
And he, the beautiful boy from my side,
Went out in the dark of the storm I
I noted his courage with untold pride —
Beauty and bravery in him were allied.
And my heart followed after his form ;
To hreaJc^
If, battle-struck, fell that fair form.
He came in a lull of the strife again,
Oame home with his beauty so dim.
And a look that ranked him with bearded men,
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 71
And sent back my thoughts to the morning, when
I painted the future for him,
Painted
The dawn of his manhood for him.
Away from his wavy and chestnut hair,
Again I selected a ring ;
But, oh I how the shock of his battles there
Had silvered the locks on his temples fair.
And brought down the snow in his spring —
The snow
That ought not to fall in the spring
I know it is all for the land of his pride
His Maydays have ended so soon;
I know that he could not stay at my side.
In a garden of roses from duty to hide,
Though life was yet far from its noon —
Though life
Might never for him reach its noon 1
So if ever again he is at my side,
Though only a hope-laden wreck.
If he but the dark of the storm may outride.
The storm of rebellion he bravely defied,
Green laurel his spring snow shall deck.
Laurel
The snow of his spring-time shall deck I
Lines to the Loyal.
The day and the hour of trial is nigh —
The time for decision's at hand •
72 PATRIOTIC POEMS
Our soldiers in front shont homeward the cry,
" Come, fill up the places of those who die,
Come, aid us in battle to standi^'
Our feet may not march at the patriot call.
Our places are not in the line —
But ours is the task of dissevering all
Those ties that the hearts of the brave enthrall—
The ties that the strongest entwine.
Then let not a daughter of our free land.
Be known in the trial to fail ;
Let not an American woman's hand
Burn one loyal brow with the coward's brand.
Or tempt a true spirit to quail.
Be ours the glory of sending them forth,
And bidding them bravely God-speed I
And ours the courage befitting free birth,
Of guiding our children and guarding our hearth,
As long as our country has need.
Be ours the honor of urging them all
To fill up the ranks of the slain ;
And ours the spirit to echo the call
Ringing back from the fields where shot, shell, and
ball
Are harvesting men like ripe grain.
Be ours the fitness for action like this.
And ours shall be the reward ;
The sorrowful thrill of the farewell kiss
Cannot wholly o'erwhelm the sense of bliss
Fulfilment of duty aflEbrds.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 73
How bright then the dawning of Peace will seem,
How welcome its radiant ray,
When the stars on the battle-banners beam,
And the well-worn swords and bayonets gleam —
As they turn from the strife away I
And the brightest beams of that glorious sun
Will the patriot's toil repay ;
And the greenest wreath when the victory's won,
The richest crown when the duty is done,
Will he for the brave of Uhda/y I
God grant that the women of this our land
May \)Q patriots pure in heart;
Grod give them the spirit and strength to stand
A resolute, brave, invincible band,
Armed well for their difficult part.
Grod grant to the daughters of this our State
Of true courage a double share.
To inspire her sons with the purpose great
Of manfully marching to any fate.
Where our banner the brave may bear.
The time of the trial has come I has come !
Now greet we our veterans with cheers I
Shout, patriot voices I let none be dumb-
Beat, loyal hearts 1 to the roll of the drum,
For our men must be volunteers /
M1U.TILIJB, Aug. 4th, 1863.
T4 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Hymn on the Battle-field.
[A Christian officer, who fell mortally wounded, in the battle of
Shiloh (or Pittsburg Landing), related of himself and fellow-mar-
tyrs to the Union cause this thrilling incident, while being romt>ved
from the Held, just before his death. The hymn sang by the
wounded and dying was that old familiar one,
" When I can read my title clear
To mansions In the skies,^' etc.]
When Shiloh's awfiil strife was fiercest raging,
Our heroes fast at posts of peril fell,
While onward swept the dauntless braves engaging
Hosts hurled against the Flag they loved so well.
«
Battalion on battalion forward rushing,
Met masses firm as they, in deadly strife.
Till hurrying feet friend, foe, alike were crushing,
And the red field drank deep the rills of life.
The agony of thirst came to the dying,
Its frenzy burned in every suffering frame ;
Yet none relieved, nor voice was heard replying
To calls of some dear love's remembered name.
Kain fell — ^wept from the pitying, far off'-heaven,
Like human tears, upon the scene of blood ;
Yet none might drink : oh, God must h&ye forgiven
If any doubted then that He was good I
At last the night-shades fell, and stars in beauty.
Like angel eyes, beamed down on death-struck
men;
** God^s soldiers'^ they, martyred in paths of duty,
"God's soldiers" still, though work was over
then.
PATRIOTIC POMES. 75
A Christian hero there, whose wounds were mortal,
Gazing toward heaven with looks of faith and
love,
Had glimpses, through the high and pearly portal,
Of palms of victory waving bright above.
New strength of soul unto his voice gave volume,
And sweet and clear rose his triumphant hymn.
Thrilling the spirits of the death-claimed column —
Brightening again the eyes grown glazed and dim.
Another voice glided into the singing —
Another and another caught the strain,
Until the notes of that strange choir were ringing
All over Shiloh's gory battle plain.
It was a simple hymn, whose words are written
In every memory, on every heart ;
But known by none as by our braves, death-smitten,
When they and human love lay wide apart.
Thank God I theirs was, indeed, a death of glory —
I would that all our slain, like them, pould die —
No need of grief that their last bed was gory.
Since they arose " to mansions in the sky."
MiiXTiLLB Hovel, Aug. 25Ui, 1863.
God will care for Mother now.
Written In compliance with a soldlert request, in answer to
» Who will care for Mother now?"
SoldibbI on the red field lying,
With death-dew upon your brow,
76 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
Asking in the hour of dying,
" Who will care for mother now ?"
Take no sad thought for the morrow,
As ye to the mandate bow ;
See the promise span your sorrow — *
God will care for mother now 1
Choeus. — Soon discharged from earthly duty.
You will see, oh, soldier, how,
From the tents of heavenly beauty,
God will care for mother now.
She will need no soldier's guarding ;
At your post an angel stands,
All the danger from her warding
On her march to safer lands.
You are marching on before her.
In the front to fate you bow.
Leaving still the old Ilag o'er her.
And a God to shield her now.
Chokus. — Soon discharged, etc.
Then upon your knapsack lying,
Since your duty's bravely done.
Take sweet comfort in thus dying —
Patriot hero I faithful son 1
When discharged from earthly duty.
You will see, oh, soldier, how.
From the tents of heavenly beauty
God will care for mother now I
Ohobus. — Soon discharged, etc.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 11
Mustered out.
The grave of an unknown soldier at Newport News, Va., is
marked by the headstone, bearing only this touching and poetio
epitaph—
** A soldier of the Union mustered out"
Lkwisbubo Ghroniole.
Kbw definitions taught by war's great woe,
Our old familiar words come round about,
And the same meaning when we saw them go,
Is not the meaning now of "mustered out."
*When first the cannon-call from Sumter came —
When first uprose the Union's answering shout,
We named with pride each ready patriot's name,
(Gone from the roll since then — all "mustered
out.")
Gone from the roll, and smitten down " unknown^^''
When found at that last post upon the route ;
Left folded in the honored blue — each gallant one —
As he, by war's red hand was "mustered out!"
But yet a higher meaning may we give.
Whence Hope may buoyant rise to vanquish
doubt ;
For does not Christ, the Christian's captain live,
To lead his soldiers home when '* mustered out?"
We shall not be the first to greet them there —
Our earthly camps we yet must guard about ;
But can we not look up in faith to where
They walk the God- lit streets, all " mustered out ?"
April 20, 1864.
18 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
The Tri-coloked Neck-tee.
One of the days in winter
That make us dream of spring.
The children toward the pine-woods
Flew out, like birds on wing.
Anear the oaken bushes,
Skirting the green woods lone,
Moss tufts, like emerald brooches.
On earth's brown bosom shone.
And there the light feet lingered.
And the busy hands, at play,
Found under dead leaves, hidden
From looks of love away,
The gay tri-colored neck-tie
A volunteer had worn.
Before he to the battles
By Country-love was borne.
Ah I one of many relics
Of absent ones and brave,
Who bear the Stripes of Union,
Its every Star to save 1
Uncounted are the households,
Where gentle hands do hide
Mementoes of the soldier,
Whose bravery has been tried.
We look upon them always —
A cap is just at hand —
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 79
A curl is wrapped in paper —
A picture's on the stand.
Oh I insuflScient treasures
To keep the heart at rest !
When with the old-time measure
Of bliss, shall home be blest?
Ah I not till this mad tempest
Of rebel wrath shall cease —
Not till the Stars of Union
Shall sing the hymn of Peace !
February 11, 1863.
The Crimson Cross.
Another relic for the little dark red box,
That all my grief-bought treasures of tiie war in-
locks ;
Another keepsake of the proud, brave-hearted one.
Whose badge it was where red work of the war was
done.
He told me, sitting here, one golden afternoon,
(One of the rich, glad days of furlough, spent so soon),
How in the fearful storming of the crest, unwon,
At Fredricksburg, the crimson Maltese cross went on,
And blazed upon his cap, when in the rank in front
The regiment went up to bear the battle's brunt.
80 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
And it was there, when standing proudly side hy side
Between the ebb and flow of battle's gory tide,
A bursting shell baptized the cross in deeper stains —
In scarlet tides of life spilled from a comrade's veins.
Ohl blood-dyed cross! it was the fittest emblem
then,
To shine before the eyes of all those dying men.
Red with the life of one who fell for Country there.
It preached of Him, who once the Cross of sins did
bear,
And lifted up before the wounded sufferer's eyes
The badge of those enlisted here for Paradise.
And still, oh Cross ! another meaning sadly comes,
Beaten upon my heart, as beats the funersi drums.
Its fiery color is the sanguinary tint
That bloody battles on Columbia's fields imprint.
Its burning hue is like the war-pressed wines that still.
The trenches round our Country's altar fill —
Rich wines of life that from our sacrifices bleed —
Spilled for the Nation's sin — shed for the Country's
need.
Oh, emblematic Cross I symbolical of pain,
How long must it be red with passion-flower stain?
How long must wounded hearts and bleeding bodies
lie,
Signed with its sign in cruel war's carnation dye ?
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 81
But still, oh, crimson cross ! there is a meaning yet,
That war and woe must tempt no spirit to forget.
The roseate flush that warms the morning's somhre
gray,
Is the sure promise of the dawning light of day
The rich hloom on the petals that in April shoot,
Betoken next September's wealth of ripened fruit.
So does the Cross that burns on many a soldier's
brow.
To glance and gleam like lightning down the war-
path now.
Betoken more than present blood and treasure lost —
More than the bleeding mark with which our hearts
are crossed.
And know we by this sign that war must ere long
cease —
That blood-bought fields will bear for us the fruits
of peace.
Know we, the Cross with which our suffering hearts
are signed,
Shall prove the title to the crowns our brows may
bind.
Thus can we bear for future gain all present loss —
Accept war's gory baptism — take up its reddened
Cross.
6
82 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
The Bonnie Blue Stripes.
[Addressed to a young brother at Bermuda Hundred, on recciy-
ing from him his worn-out chevrons, which were Just replaced by
new ones, denoting a promotion.]
The bonnie blue stripes from your own brave arm,
With my tears lying fresh on their stains,
Shall be folded away from battle's harm,
And away from Virginia rains.
Like the stripes so worn, in that sad campaign.
That we hoped would have ended the fight,
They'll be kept with love that is bom of pain, —
Kept sacred alone for love's sight.
Together those glorious stripes shall be
With the faded, tri-colored tie —
With the red-set ring from the Libby free —
With all I remember you by.
With the trefoil, blue as the banner's sky —
With the Cross that was dyed in blood —
With the little gloves that I held you by —
Regretting for once my womanhood.
Together, together, I lock them in —
All my relics of price untold ;
I'd barter them only for strength to win
The field where our Flag-stripes unfold I
Cushion Mouwiaiw,
National Fast day, 18d4.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 83
To MY Brotheb in Tennessee.
You looked in upon my dreams last night,
With your dark eye bright as ever ;
You spoke with cheer of the coming fight,
But sighed o'er the ties we sever.
My spirit spanned with the dreamer's bridge
The beautiful dark blue river,
And onward marched to vale and ridge,
Where cavalry lances shiver.
On I with the yearning a sister knows
For the weal of a brave brother,
I sped from where the Ohio flows —
On I on! till we clasped each other.
But the morning light came breaking in,
And I and my soldier parted —
You with your sword to battle and win —
I, to tarn backward, lone-hearted.
The dream bridge that the Ohio spanned
Broke down when my soul passed over.
And my dim, dim look where I saw you stand,
Saw danger around you hover.
If you but wore the armor of God,
That is proof against temptation —
If I knew your untried feet were shod
With the Gospel preparation —
84 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
If I saw 70U girt about with truth —
Armed with the sword of the Spirit,
And with faith to shield your tempted youth,
I might see, yet no more fear it.
As it is, I watch you out of sight —
I pray for your soul's salvation —
I gaze towards the sunrise hills all night
For dawn, to end supplication.
April 26th, 1864.
Battle-field Blossomings.
** I M.W on the battle-field, pretty, pare, delicate flowers, growing
out of empty ammanition boxes, a rose blooming in a brolcen Unioti
drum, and scarlet verbena peeping out of a bursted sheir'
Unfolding freshly at Bull Kun,
Arose the flowers from earth's scarred breast;
Frail victors of a field, unwon
By strength that twice their frailness pressed.
Pale buds in cartridge-boxes blow —
A rose uplifts its graceful head
Within a Union drum, left low
Beside the gallant Union dead.
Verbenas from a bursted shell,
In crimson colors brightly burn.
And many a blossoming cup and bell
Garland the dead for whom we mourn.
So shall the beautiful and true
Again grow out of fearful things ;
So shall the heart its strength renew.
Amid all scenes the conflict brings.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 85
All battle-fields again may bloom,
As blooms to-day the lost Bull Kun,
And from the dread war's crowded tomb
Will bud the fruits of duty done.
Peace from the war-path ever springs,
As death leads into larger life;
Joy after sorrow more joy brings ;
Best is the sweeter for the strife.
The Southebn Voice.
The feeling which dictated the following, may be accounted for
by the statement that early associations rendered dear the peca-
Harities of Southern language. After long separation from Southern
friends, during which "a great gulf" has been fixed between us,
the sound of a Southern voice in Nortiiern streets moved me to
tears, and awakened never-to-be-forgotten memories.
A TUMULT shook the street below —
Alone was I, and musing.
Unmoved by the surging to and fro,
The gathering and uprising.
The angry shouts had reached my ear,
And language soul corrupting.
But I only heard as dreamers hear,
My thoughts uninterrupting ;
Till on the air a voice rang out.
Young, brave, yet God-defying,
That touched me with its rebel shout,
And caught my soul replying.
86 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
The voice was strange, but not the wa/y
In which the words wBre spoken ;
That accent still is dear to-day
Despite the Union broken.
The words were words I may not speak —
Words not for my repeating,
But they called the warm blood to my cheek,
Frqm the heart they set abeating.
The reckless words, the voice unknown,
Caused not the agitation —
'Twas the nameless something in the tone,
The simple pronunciation.
'Twas the way that many a lost voice had
Bearing to me relation,
When the Korth and South together made
An undivided Nation.
Oh I voices of the sweet, lost land,
That once our songs were singing,
Float to the border where I stand.
With all that South-sound ringing !
Float to the border and with mine
Join in a Union chorus !
Oh ! praise once more in loyal line
The Flag that's waving o'er us !
Without that nameless Southern charm I
Their own pronunciation,
Old Union songs can never warm
The chilled heart of the Nation.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 87
I know we stand beneath the stars
On the old banner gleaming,
While they uphold the blood-dyed bars
Above their ruins streaming ;
Still, still, I cannot learn to feel
The hate this war's begetting —
The sweet old memories reveal
A love there's no forgetting.
MiLLTiLLE Hotel, August, 1863.
The Blue Violets.
" Oh I what tender thoughts beneath
Those violets blue were lying/'— Moore.
The battle raged. Where Hancock led,
A fair boy-soldier wounded fell,
Amid the thickest of the slain,
Under the hail of grape and shelL
No hand of pitying friend or foe
Removed him from his gory bed ;
His own strong heart beat on, alone —
Whole regiments of souls had fled 1
Faint with the loss of blood he grew ;
Yet bearing up against his pain.
He culled the sweet blue violets
That bloomed out in that battle-rain.
Fainter, yet fainter grew the boy.
And still among the dead he lay ;
But in his hand and on his heart
He kept the blood-baptized bouquet.
88 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
They found him thus, thank God ! in time —
Though he had lain a weary while,
Clasping his faithful violets —
Wearing a "brave, sweet, touching smile."
Jane, 1864.
The Dead Picket.
** On the field where oar cavalry engaged the enemy, lay a beacti-
Hil garden, clothed in all the loveliness that rare plants and Soath-
em flowers could give it The smiling magnolias and the roses
seemed to stand guard over deserted premises. I entered
through an open gate, stooped to pluck a rose, and so doing, dis-
covered a rebel picket Ijing partially covered by the grass and
dowers, dead.
*' He was a noble-looking man, and upon his countenance there
seemed to rest the remnant of a smile. His right hand clasped a
rose, which he was in the act of severing from its stem when he
received the messenger of death. In the afternoon the cavalry
dug a narrow grave, and with Federal soldiers for pall-bearers,
and the beautiful flowers for mourners, he was laid to rest, the
rose still clasped in his stiffened hand. Nothing was found to
identify him. His name and history lie entombed in his lonely
grave, and no sister^s tears will baptize the spot where the dead
picket fell.'' — OinGinnati Commercial,
DeadI where his beautiful Georgian sky
Unfurled its broad banner of blue ;
Dead, where the odorous breezes swept by,
His beat with bright blossoms to strew.
Dead, where the plants of the South -land rare,
His footsteps like fairy-wands barred ;
Where the graceful magnolias smiling fair
And the roses o'er him stood guard.
Dead, 'mid the treasures he guarded in vain —
Dead tliere at his flowery post I
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 89
Dead to his treasure, and dead to his pain,
And dead to the cause he had lost.
Dead, all alone on that garden's green sod,
Enshi'ouded with blossoms the while ;
Dead, with a face in the image of God,
Half-lit with a death-broken smile.
Dead, with his right hand caressing a rose.
That he clasped as his summons came —
Thus called, who else save his Father knows
What measure to mete him of blame /
Found dead by the guardsmen of Union there^
They gathered as friends in a band.
And laid him to rest in his garden fair.
With the rose in his stiffened hand.
ITo epitaph stories the picket's fate,
His grave among roses may lie,
The name, better deeds might have rendered great,
Unknown, at his death had to die !
Sad "grave among roses!" oh, Georgian stars,
When ye picket your post of our world.
Gaze kindly, though he for the crimson bars
Left the Flag that his fathers unfurled.
May 28th, 186^
90 PATRIOTIC POEMS.
After the Battle.
[The folbwing lines Were suggested by a correspondent's letter
to the Oinc.innati Commercial, dated in the field, near Besaca,
Georgia, May 16th, 1864]
The brilliant son of a Georgian sky
Smiled down on a green savanna;
The Flag of the South blazed in its ray,
It lit the stars on our banner 1
But the battle-shock had passed away,
And the heated blood ran colder,
Round the hearts which that eventful day
By their pain grew ages older.
An angel came to them softly then —
An angel of heavenly beauty —
Inspiring the souls of those suffering men
Unto Ohrist-like deeds of duty.
The ghastly wound of a Union brave.
Who had been his Flag's bold bearer,
Was bound by a hand that late did wave
A banner he thought was fairer.
And together fell, our standard near,
A foe and a true defender,
And the Federal canteen gave its cheer
From a hand both brave and tender.
For the battle-shock had passed away —
It had left them in the trenches,
And he's true friend, who, after the fray,
The thirst of his fellow quenches.
PATRIOTIC POEMS. 91
A common want and a common woe
Knit hearts anew to each other, —
One Father above — none else below —
Each foe was a new-found brother.
By this, hold we faith that our common land
Union forever shall cherish I
For c^ter tJie lattle, that promise spanned
The pit where we thought to perish.
May 28th, 1864.
92 IDYLS OF HOME.
IDYLS OF HOME.
The Old Place.
The orchard with its tinted leaves,
The hollow's tangled steep,
The old tree where the vine still cleaves,
I visit in my sleep ;
And ever like a mourning dove
I linger round the home I love.
The Indian summer's brilliant light
Gilds many a lovelier scene,
But there's for me no spot more bright,
N"© place more still, serene ;
The sun could not more kindly smile
On the most favored southern isle ;
For there is love in every beam,
That gently falls asleep
Upon the lowly shaded stream.
And on the hillside steep.
Yes, they are smiles of love, and still
They make my heart with sorrow thrill.
And when the early shadows flit
Across the velvet lawn.
IDYLSOPHOME. 93
Sweet sadness quivers in the light
Of blushing, rosy dawn.
Yes, sadness wells up in my heart.
For with the dear old place I part.
ril bid the winds breathe my farewell
When evening hushes earth,
And the song-bird shall my parting tell
When there's no soimd of mirth.
Oh! sorrow fills my tear-dimmed eye —
I leave thee ! hear my last good by 1
UoPB Farm, Oct. 29, 1850.
Loved Scenes.
OhI for the dimly lighted woods,
The paths I love so well !
How oft my spirit yearns to go
Where the cool shadows dwell !
To feel the free, unfettered wind,
That God alone can quell.
Freighted with fragrance from the flowers
That garland the green dell.
Oh 1 for the clear and dimpled stream,
Where sunset's farewell ray
Is wont to linger like a smile
Upon the waves at play.
The tuneful purling of those waves
Is Nature's gentlest hymn,
Low chanted in the forest aisles
Of God's cathedral dim.
94 IDYLS OF HOME.
Oh I for the haunts I used to love,
Each green and grassy dell,
Where even angels might delight
A summer hour to dwell.
There I could sit for hours alone.
And drink in every strain
That wild birds carol in their joy,
And then repeat again.
Oh! that my feet might press once more,
With light elastic tread,
Those dear old paths where first the flowers
Upraise their lovely heads.
Oh ! that my hand might gather there
The roses pure and white,
Which, faded, typify the thoughts
That dim my spirit-light.
. ^
Oh I ere the clouds of winter life
Have shadowed summer dreams,
Or dimmed the light of one bright hope
That in my bosom beams,
I'll seek again those shadowy woods.
And purling streamlet's side,
With every feeling, every thought
Pure as its silvery tide.
St. I^un, Mo., 1863.
Thoughts op Home.
OvEB my heart is stealing
A yearning all in vain —
An eager, longing feeling
To be at home again.
IDYLS OF HOME. 95
Scenes, my memory's keeping,
Grow bright when I'm alone :
Homesick, 1 sit here weeping.
And hear no loving tone.
The air to-day is breathing
Something of dear ones there,
While I am busy wreathing
Pale flowers of thought, and fair.
Oh 1 this is useless pining 1
I know it may not be,
Though firm the cords are twining
That bind that home to me.
Whenever I grow weary.
Whene'er the world seems cold,
O'er all that's dark and dreary, y^
My thoughts fly to that fold.
March, 1863.
Dream Visit to Fruitland.
Thought bears me on its tireless wing
To my deserted home,
And I can enter there to-night.
Unnoticed and unknown.
Once more I reach the well-known place —
I stand outside the gate —
I open it — I enter in —
I can no longer wait.
My feet are treading the old path
Around the wild-rose bower.
96 IDYLS OF HOME.
Where I have passed, in childish play,
Many a free, glad hour.
And now I stand npon the step,
Before the wide old door —
I raise the latch and cross the sill
As in the days of yore.
Bnt where are the familiar things
That once were in this room ?
I wish the sun were shining now
To dissipate the gloom.
I'm weary and I long for rest —
Where is my easy-chair ?
Is nothing here I used to own ?
Where are they then, oh I where ?
I cannot see my favorite stand.
With tiny drawers infeide,
The work of one who used to do
Such things in loving pride.
And where is now the old arm-chair
That stood in quiet grace
In its warm corner by the fire.
Its old accustomed place ?
And Where's the clock ? I cannot hear
The dear familiar sound,
That used to keep me company
When lonely days came round.
And Elsie's little carriage, too.
It is not at the door ;
IDYLS OF HOME. 9*1
I always left it standing there
When I was here before.
Oh 1 I must leave this altered place,
It is no longer home 1
I knew, I knew it must be changed —
Alas I why did I come ?
The thorns lie thickly strewn around
Beneath the locust tree ;
The flowers are gone, but they remain
Sharp as they used to be.
They're hidden in the tangled grass,
They prick my weary feet,
And even the low thorny limbs
Droop down my brow to meet.
Oome, come away from this, my soul.
Fly from so dark a scene :
Awake, awake 1 and dream no more
Of things that once have been.
The place so brightly beautiful.
The home of bygone years,
Is lost, and never can be bought
With vain, regretful tears.
Then linger not, my soul, for rest.
Where rest has been denied ;
There's other fairer homes, faint heart I
Thou knowest the world is wide.
t
98 IDYLS OF HOME.
Heart-calls for Home.
Removed to another prison,
Li frowning mountain walls,
I sit alone at my window
Hushing my heart's low caUs —
Its calls ioT friends and home !
And I watch with intense longing
The free wild birds, that fly
Across the hills rejoicingly
Against the sunny sky —
Swiftly returning home !
It suits me not to be confined —
My restless heart wants room ;
I think of the boundless prairies
Spangled with flowers in bloom,
That long ago was home !
I think of the fair, rich valley,
The Mississippi shore.
And the fields of many acres,
Mine once, but mine no more ;
I must not call it home !
But I must be strong and hopeful.
Looking for brighter days —
Clouds must not shut out the shining
Of Hope's warm, healthful rays ;
I must bring glad thoughts home I
Despair must not chill my spirit.
Affliction must not crush,
IDYLS OF HOME. 99
But faith all my doubts must scatter,
And my rejoicings hush ;
Then I may hope for home I
Bkllkfohtb, Sept, 1860.
GOOD-BY.
GooD-BT I we spoke it again and again,
As we heard the warning shriek of the train,
And knew that we neared the station ;
And my thoughts in trains went hurrying back
Through the past, along a familiar track.
Towards home, on the old plantation.
I could see it then, with memory's eye.
As it looked when we said our first good-by —
Lingering to make preparation —
To gather more strength— to struggle with tears —
To summon up courage— to fight with fears —
To endure the separation.
But the pitiless train rushed faster on.
The last precious moment was almost gone —
**Gk)od-byl good-by! oh, my mother I"
My head on her breast was heavily laid —
My heart beat 'gainst hers as it inly prayed —
Each hand was clasped by a brother.
Alas I on our ears fell that warning shriek.
And ere we another farewell could speak,
The cars were again in motion,
And I was standing with blinded eyes.
Pursuing the train with unheard good-bys.
Left there, with grief for my portion.
976615A
100 IDYLS OF HOME.
On 1 on 1 it sped, with a maniac scream,
And ere I could shake off that night-mare dream
It had reached another station.
Then I awoke to a sense of my pain,
But the clotid that shed its hurden of rain
Passed by, at the separation.
Bloomsboro, April, 1861.
For Ella's " Eose-bud" Album.
You ask a flower from my cold hand
For the wreath your friends are twining.
But I left my flowers in that sweet land
For which I am ever pining.
Shall I fly, young friend, across the States,
And the mountains that intervene,
And light at the old plantation gates.
And gather fresh buds from the green ?
Shall I bring the spotted lilies back.
From the nooks where they are growing?
Or shall I seek, on a wilder track,
Where the Mississippi's flowing ; —
For the feathery boughs of cedar bright,
The cliffs and the bluffs adorning.
That shine the same in the winter's light
As upon a summer's morning ?
Or, shall I up to the homestead go.
The crimson trumpets to gather?
IDYLS OF HOME. 101
Or wait fbr the four-o'clocks to blow —
Or bear off mj prince's feather ?
But no 1 I may never bring them here,
And all I can offer, Ella,
Is a picture of what once was dear,
In a frame of weeping willow.
Bloomsburo, Pa., 1861.
Keeping House.
FoUB rooms we live in — llal and I ;
They are not wide, they are not high,
Yet they are all we ask ;
From dawn till in the afternoon,
Humming a little made-up tune,
I go about my task.
It is not like the dear old place.
And yet resemblance I can trace,
Enough to call it home.
Some slender little boughs of peach
Over the lowered sash do reach.
Into my sitting-room.
There is no spacious lawn about,
But the glad children can play out
Upon a grassy patch.
And each one take's her little chair,
To sit out in the sun-warmed air,
While, mother-like, I watch.
102 IDYLS OP HOME.
With my frail hands, that until this
Felt nothing rougher than a kiss,
Our little meals I get ;
Counting four plates with knife and fork,
Taking my self-taught way to work,
Till every thing is set.
And in the evening, Hal and I,
Under the blue star spangled sky,
Sometimes together walk,
While children play about our feet.
As children do, with laughter sweet,
And^pretty, idle talk.
Our path has been a shaded one,
But now we come out in the sun,
We know not for how long.
We know the shadows near us lurk.
But we will love and hope and work.
And that will make us strong.
WUXIAMSPOBT, 1861 .
To MY ABSENT MOTHEB.
'Tis morning, but the wintry sun
Looks through a veil of sombre gray.
And the dull landscape truly wears
The robe of a December day.
The garden lies a cheerless waste —
The trembling arms of leafless trees
Stretch forth, with gestures strangely wild.
In the unfeeling northern breeze ;
\
IDYLS OF HOME. 103
And with a homesick sigh, I turn
From contemplating such a scene,
And wish for skies serenely blue.
And verdure of perpetual green.
Then, too, in Memory's picture-halls
I view a scene, beloved the best —
The dear old place, home, home, sweet home.
In that bright land, the far Southwest.
The old plantation acres broad.
The garden and the sunny plain,
The orchard of five thousand trees.
The soil, green-carpeted with grain —
And in the foreground, the old house.
With vines upon its dark walls trailed —
All, all has Memory's pencil sketched,
And all has Memory's hand unveiled.
So life-like is the pictured scene,
So natural does all appear.
That even old familiar sounds
Deceiving Fancy makes me hear.
I listen to the horses' tread,
Turned homeward at the even-tide,
Led by the dappled bay, the " Prince,"
Who scarce can touch the earth for pride,
** Black Kose," with high, defiant head.
Swift as a fearless, free wild bird,
Disputes with him the right to lead
The spirited and noble herd.
And peerless " Harry of the West"
With graceful ''Julie" hies away,
While ** Jennie" and Canadian '^Lou"
Pace on with playful " Famiie Gay."
104 IDYLS OP HOME.
" Grace Darling," without fault of form,
Queen of the herd by beauty's right,
With royal dignity and ease
Amid her suite appears in sight ;
And the old dowagers advance
With the young princess, " Pattie Pace,"
Escorted by the wild mustang.
Impatient for the prairie race.
The faithful dogs around me group, —
The veteran hero, " Watch," I see,
And good ''Fidelia," noble "Dred,"
With boisterous joy climb on my knee.
Then lordly " Plato," Clinton's pet
(For his sake more than doubly dear).
And fierce-eyed " Fury," savage brute.
Stand guard their girlish mistress near.
But 1 awake : my inward gaze
Comes back to this December day —
Comes back to the brown garden waste.
To shivering trees and clouds of gray.
And then, remembrances of sin
With thorny sharpness wound my heart,
And conscience faithfully reveals
Why, homeless, we must dwell apart.
Ambition then possessed my soul,
And rudely banished sweet content ;
And my unthankfal heart refused
Acceptance of the gifts God sent.
But now, since they have taken flight.
How rich ! how beautiful they seem I
And lost reality becomes
My spirit's sweetest earthly dream.
IDYLS OP HOME. 105
I now recall the wild desirea
That poisoned then life's well-spring pure,
And feel that these sad homeless years
Have been the exile's bitter cure.
'Twere just that haughty human pride
Humiliating woes should meet, —
That rugged paths in lands unknown
Should weary such impatient feet.
Perhaps when I am fully tried,
'Twill cease to be my fate to roam ;
"Then, mother, pray that we may meet
Together in a sweet, sweet home.
Keep for each wandering one a place
In heart, and hearth, and social board,
And hope, dear mother, that we all
To home and you may be restored.
WiuJAMSPORT, Pa., Dec. Slst, 1861.
To Henby.
These hills arc very beautiful,
And fair and far the view ;
But, think me not undutiful —
I see it not with you, dear friend,
I see it not with you.
I know 'twould be a lovely home,
If but the heart were there;
But ah I a prison or the tomb
For me would be as fair, dear friend,
As pleasant and as fair.
106 IDYLS OF HOME.
KothiDg can make my pining heart
In this cold land seek rest —
Body and sonl must dwell apart,
And I must live uublest, my friend,
Unsatisfied, unblest.
My sonl is not a mountain bird,
It loves the sweet Southwest,
And sings but in the air that stirred
Around its prairie nest, sweet friend,
Its grass-bound prairie nest.
It calls no other land its home;
The prairie and the bluff —
There, there alone its wings have room —
To dwell there is enough, dear friend,
Joy, happiness enough.
WnoiAXSPOBT, Jan., 1862.
ViNELAND.
Our beautiftd adopted land
Slept in its sunshine long ;
But now it wakes ! and ocean's strand
Echoes its morning song I
A twelvemonth since, the slumber broke —
The voice of enterprise
This sunny land of vines awoke,
Bidding its fruits arise.
Then all these unsought acres lay
Wild as a hunting-ground.
East from the billows of the Bay,
And South, Atlantic bound ;
IDYLS OP HOME. 107
Now^ as by magic, every spot
Flings off its wildwood dress,
And cottages the fair fields dot
In simple loveliness.
The cheery laugh of childhood rings
The avenues along,
And many an older voice here sings
A ^<>pe-inspired song.
Untrammelled by all old-place ties
Save those we love to keep.
We only sow the seed we prize ;
And as we sow we'll reap.
Brothers and sisters we become,
In touching Yineland sod,
Inmates of one expansive home.
Children of one true God.
The very riame of Vineland charms
The weary ones elsewhere —
The beauty of its meaning warms
Desires to breathe its air.
Even from England's dewy isle,
Victoria's garden land.
They traverse many an ocean-mile
To take us by the hand.
And from the birth-place of romance,
The land of song and wine.
They come I they come I yes, even France
Plants here the fruitful vine I
And calm Pacific's waters, too,
Bring back the hearts that wait
To bound upon its billows blue.
108 IDYLS OF HOME.
Home, from the Golden State ;
Home, to a new home loved the best —
A spot on Yineland soil,
"Where love prompts labor, and we rest
At health-begetting toil.
The land of fruit! the land of spring!
Land 'neath a favored sky,
Land, where the strange bird's weary wing
May fold, no more to fly.
Land of adoption, swift we come !
Fair clime of vines and flowers !
Clime that afibrds the heart a home —
A sunny clime now ours !
January, 1863.
Inyttation to Vineland.
Come to Vineland ! come to Yineland !
From the city's stifled air,
From the snowy northern mountains.
From the old farms worn and bare ;
Come away from cold New England,
Come, too, from the far Northwest,
Where alike the chains of winter
Bind in slavery Nature's breast.
Come and meet us ! not as strangers,
But with Friendship's clasping hand.
And in time we'll reap together
Golden harvests from the land.
Come, and claim the idle acres
That wild flowers now intwine,
IDYLS OP HOME. 109
And create a hundred Edens
Rich witib fruits of tree and vine.
Come and join us I Here together
From the different States we meet —
Some allured by fresh sea-breezes
From the dusty city street ;
Others, drawn by hope of dwelling
Under their own vine and tree,
Where no foe can dare molest them,
Where they may be fearless — ^free I
Some hail from JSfew England homesteads,
Some from snnmier lUinois,
Some from fair Missouri's border,
Where guerilla bands annoy ;
Some from far-off Minnesota,
Some from old 'Sylvania's vales,
But still from the dear old Union
Every glad new-comer hails 1
Come, and join us, then, in Vineland I
Hasten while there yet is room ;
Come, with ready hands to help us.
Make our sweet wild Eden bloom.
Bring but Tiope^ and/aii^, and courage^
Health is waiting for you here.
Come, and join us, then, in Vineland I
Come, partake of Vineland cheer 1
VUIBLAJTD, N. J.
110 IDYLS OF HOME.
Eepey to the "Invitation to Vineland."
[Paraphrase of a letter received from a relative, in acknowledg-
ment of the receipt of a Yineland Sural, containing that poem.]
** OoMB to Vineland 1" yes, I will I
Though aflfection binds me here,
And strong ties unsevered still
Hold me back from *' Vineland cheer ;''
Yet I'll leave my place of birth-
Scene of vanished boyhood days,
Where I've had my youthful mirth
In so many different ways.
I will leave the rippling run
With its foot- worn bridge of plank,
Where the fish dart in the sun
From beneath the shelving bank ;
I will leave the " lower spring,"
Best for me that ever fiowed ;
How its falling waters sing,
Gurgling low a-near the road I
I will leave the old ash-tree.
Dear for ties tJiat memory weaves.
For I first stood there to see
Harvest-hands bind up the sheaves ;
I will leave the flowery yard,
Where the roses blossom red ;
And the walks, where stand on guard
Shrubs about each blooming bed.
I will leave the orchard old,
With its fruits, delicious, rich—
IDYLS OF HOME. Ill
Quinces, striped with green and gold,
And the pink, sun-painted peach ;
"Major apples," red and rare.
For our soldier grandsire named—
" Father's Tree," whose fruit so fair
Father's hand in autumn claimed.
And ril leave the church so dear.
Where my Christian vows were made.
With the silent graveyard near,
Where my sainted friends are laid,
Living friends I leave as well.
Friends, who all have kindness shown —
Kindred, who by actions tell
Love, that words would leave unknown.
Yes, I'll leave the spot so dear.
Once a guarded fortress site,
Where, with patriot-soldiers near.
First my father saw the light ;
Leave the memory-hallowed ground,
Leave each venerated tree.
Leave the fair fields mountain-bound —
Leave the all that's left to me/
Leave it for a promised boon
That is counted more than wealth —
Leave it for one gift alone,
For the blessed gift of health I
This inheritance, though rich,
Has not lengthened life to give.
And its cold wind-voices teach —
" Go elsewhere if you would live."
112 IDYLS OP HOME.
Thus I leave it all, to go—
Go where health is promised free ;
Where the fresh sea-breezes blow,
Causing dark disease to flee.
Leave it ! leave it ! yes, I come.
To the land of gentle spring —
Yineland is henceforth my home —
" Vineland cheer" I soon shall sing.
CHILUS4UA4UB, Northamberland Co., Pa.
Home of my Childhood.
Mr—"" Joys of my Childhood."
Home of my childhood.
Lost now forever.
Lying afar in the vale of the West —
Spot in the wildwood,
By the broad river —
Land that I pine for, and home I love best.
Dear is the house that was built for my mother.
Holy the grave of my innocent brother,
Sacred the haunts where I spent, with another,
Days when my heart was with happiness blest !
Home of my childhood.
Why did fate sever
Me from the place where my soul had found rest ?
Prairie and wildwood,
Bluff and blue river.
Land that I pine for, and home I love best!
Home of my childhood,
I have been roving.
IDYLS OP HOME. ' 113
Roving afar from my own Illinois ;
But though, removing,
Still am 1 loving
Scenes that no after delight can destroy.
Morning that smiles on this ocean-hound prairie,
Birds whose gay revels vie courts of a fairy.
Breath of old ocean, life-giving and airy,
Take not the place of my childhood's lost joy.
Home of my childhood,
Why am I roving
Further and further from thee, Illinois ?
Why am I moving,
Lone and unloving,
'Mid scenes that give back not my childhood's joy ?
VllfBLAND, N. J., Oct., 1862.
8
EPISODES.
The Persian Maiden and her Lute.
[A wind, called tlie Samoor, so softens the strings of latee, that
they can never be toned while it lasts. — Stephens^ Portia.}
A MAIDEN sat at her lute, alone,
Her fingers o'er it straying,
But it breathed not music's faintest tone.
To tell what she was playing.
Soft winds were wandering over the chords
With scarce a sound of sighing,
While on the maiden's lips hung words
Like tones of zephyrs dying.
It was the wind that over that land
like a dumb spirit stealing.
Softens the lute strings beneath the hand
Skilled in the songs of feeling.
So long had the young girl's lute been stilled,
Her heart had lost its gladness.
And the fountain of her thoughts was filled
With troubled waves of sadness.
EPISODES. 115
Then the iDsdden sang to the hushed lute
Beneath her fair hand lying,
In tones like the breathing of a flute
Away in the distance dying.
" Sweet lute, IVe waited long
For one sweet old-time song
From thy dumb strings ;
And still the Samoor's breath
Distils a sleep, like death,
From its wide wings.
" Dear lute, I wait all day.
Though voices call away,
Yet thou art still ;
My fingers woo one note
On Persia's air to float.
At my own wilL
" Loved lute, wait I in vain
To hear sweet sounds again
From thy frail chords ?
If, while o'er thee I bend.
Thy voice and mine could blend,
'Twould joy afford I
"Dear late, I'll wait and pray.
That soon may pass away
The soft Samoor ;
Then, then, I know thou'lt wake,
And this sad silence break
With song, once more."
ViMK LODGK, 111.
116 EPISODES.
The Blind Italian Gibl. ,
She stood alone, with beauty all around
Her, and above. Blue as the undimmed eyes
Of angels were the radiant skies, and all
The breathing air was golden with those smiles
Of rich, etherial sunlight, that only
Beam upon Italia's favored clime. On
Old gray walls they fell, and gave their brightness
To the glossy leaves and clasping tendrils
Of the vine, that, like the arms of love, had
Olung for ages to the fallen fanes (long
Left to ruin and decay), as though they
Strove to hide from stranger-eyes the gloom,
The damp, the ever-deepening stains of time.
But through the emerald leaves, the spirit of
The sunlight, golden-winged, would float into
The dark recesses everywhere, and fill
Them with pale gleams of glory, such as light
The death-touched brow of genius, when the lamp
Within is sinking low, and dying out.
Not more unshadowed could they rest upon
The laughing streams, the lovely southern flowers,
And groves of breeze-stirred myrtle-trees — save that
There was a stain of sorrow, such as fills
A gorgeous palace, when the hearts that throb
Within it, and the eyes that look upon
The splendor there, are full of tearful light
And thus beneath a temple's shade the poor
Blind mwden stood. A gentle friend, who led
Her there, to feel the loveliness she could
Not soe, had left her side, to gather fair
Fresh flowers, to hold communion with the blind
EPISODES. 117
GirPs music-breathing heart. The grateful breeze
Swept by, and she could feel its spirit-fingers
Toying with the rich black tresses of her
Hair, and touching, light and tenderly, her
Forehead, pure and pale. A nd there was something
In that touch, and in the wind's low voice, that
Woke upon the harp of her young heart a
Plfdntive song. And while the beautiful strange
Light of inspiration came into the dark
Depths of her sightless eyes, and tinged her cheek
With life's red tide, the wealth of feeling, deep
And true, burst from her lips in song.
"Italy! dear Italy I
My own bright land I
Beneath thy skies so deeply blue,
Lonely and blind I stand.
With yearnings full of deepest pain
My heart is thrilled ;
And with the tears from its deep fount
My sightless eyes are filled.
"Italy! fair Italy I
Thy fragrant air
Comes stealing over my young brow,
And playing with my hair.
But oh I the flowers, whose fragrance sweet
Comes on thy wing —
Oh, can I never gaze on them,
And know of what I sing?
"Italy I bright Italy I
The stranger's eye
Has looked upon thy sunny streams
118 EPISODES.
That float in music by ; —
A sweet stream murmurs at my feet,
But I am blind ;
And e'en the footpath in its brink,
Alone, I cannot find.
"Italy I sweet Italy 1
I love thee well I
And I have wept in anguish wild
Because of tiiis black spell
That veils my sight, and fills my heart
With so much gloom,
Making it in this sunlit land
A dark, a rayless tomb.
"Italy! loved Italy I
The hour of death
Will ere long o'er my young life steal,
And take away my breath ;
But thy blest light can never pale
To my dim eye —
Oh I would that I could have my sight
One hour, before I die I
"Italy I blest Italy I
I then could lie
Upon the couch of pain and death
Without a tear or sigh.
My heart would break with its great joy
To look on thee.
And take bright pictures in its depths
Of temple, grove, and tree.
"Italy! dear Italy!
My own bright land !
EPISODES. 119
Thy child is blind ; but if in heaven
Among the saved I stand,
I'll look in love upon each spot
I long to see,
And with the sunbeams send mj smile
To those most dear to me."
Fkcitlaitd, 1854.
Madeline.
Madeline sat, one autumn day,
Becalling scenes long passed away.
Low bowed her head, in earnest thought
Of all the changes time had wrought.
September sunshine softly lay
Asleep upon her robe of gray ;
And through the windows of her soul
A fragment of its brightness stole.
Guiding her, with its glory, back
To her lost childhood's sunny track.
The homestead old first rose to view,
With every tree that round it grew :
She saw the creek with banks so green ;
She saw the willow-shaded stream ;
And then the very bridge of plank,
Where one might spring from bank to bank.
120 EPISODES.
Again, beneath the hill-side steep,
Where shadows all the summer sleep,
She saw the same small rough bark trough,
And tiny cascade tumbling off.
The house itself, the gray-limed walls—
The quaint old rooms — ^the wide old halls —
The hearthstone broad, and clean, and red,
Where laughing fire-flames upward fled,
When the October frosts came down —
The time of gathering nuts so brown.
Again appeared her grandsire's face.
Smiling in its accustomed place ;
There stood the same old easy-chair.
And open Bible lying there.
AH, all appeared so real then,
She dreamed she was a child again.
And thus it passed — the shifting ray
Shone on the Shenandoah gay.
Picturing a south-land summer-time
In the Virginian valley's clime.
And next glowed in the yellow light
A hill-side cottage neat and white.
On one side rose the dark-green trees,
Trembling in the unquiet breeze ;
EPISODES. 121
And on the other stretched a plain,
Dotted with sheaves of yellow grain.
Again it changed. The light went on
To gild another home, long gone.
'Twas on a swell of earth's fair breast,
A lovely prairie of the West ;
She saw herself a happy child,
A free bird in that Eden wild.
And now upon the last loved spot —
The longest loved — ^the ne'er forgot —
Madeline looks in mute despair,
Only sighing, "Lost I and so fair!"
The fruit-trees wave, the garden lies
Under the Illinoisian skies ;
The rank grass tangles on the slope.
The very air sighs, " Vain is hope."
Forsaken home I overgrown with weeds —
Trampled by herds of restless steeds —
Ruined and desolate it lies —
Saddest of scenes to Madeline's eyes.
Still lower bowed her head, in thought
Of the dark changes time had wrought.
The autumn sunshine lingered yet
On robe of gray, on hair of jet;
122 EPISODES.
But in her eyes stood stormy rain,
Shutting out light from her hearths pain.
" Lost! lost I" she wailed, " all torn away,
There's now no spot where 1 may stay ;
" No place of rest, no home on earth,
Ko family altar, no warm hearth.
" This changeful light will soon he gone,
The moonless night is coming on,
" And while my fair young children sleep,
And darkness hides me, I can weep.
"Ah I little thought I, when a bride.
How dark the world, how drear, how wide I'^
Pennstltania Hotel, Bellefonte, Sept, 1860.
HONORA.
HoNOBA. at her window stood
Alone, in meditative mood.
The fragrance-freighted morning air
Coquetted with her shining hair.
While a soft ray of early light
Shone on a marriage circlet bright,
That gemmed the fair hand lying still
Upon the wide, low window-sill.
EPISODES.
She stood half dreaming, till by chance
The flashing jewel won a glance.
She smiled ; it was a smile of pride —
Perchance with tenderer thoughts allied ;
For new emotions seemed to hold
Her changing gaze npon the gold.
The prond, bright smile forsook her face—
A look of thought stole in its place.
Eemembrances of other years,
Sweet days of April smiles and tears,
Again were quickened into life
Within the bosom of the wife.
Kineteen fair summers she had seen,
With no chill winter months between ;
For winter's chains may bind the earth.
While summer reigns in heart and hearth.
Thus ftur, Honora's youth had been —
Thus passed her maidenhood serene :
E'en the last change of her spring life —
The mystic change that made her wife —
Left all things outwardly the same.
In nothing altered, save in name.
She lingered in her childhood's home —
She stood within her bridal-room —
124 EPISODES.
The same where she had, years agone,
Slept sweet from even-tide till dawn,
With a child-friend who loved her then
As never friend can love again.
Such pictures hung before her mind —
To outward scenes her eye grew blind ;
Between her gaze and that spring scene
Arose the face of Madeline.
Honora! looked she in your eyes
In mute despair, in sad surprise?
Or questioned she your calm proud heart
Of aught that turned your paths apart?
Honora I if no other thorn
Hides in your rose leaves this May morn,
Wounds not that one your woman's breast?
Bifitorbs it not your memory's rest?
Perchance you dream upon that bed
How you have lain your lovely head.
On the same pillow, sweetly clean,
Bedde the once loved Madeline.
Bow many times your tresses brown,
Upon those white-draped drifts of down,
Hftve juried around her raven braids,
Brighter by contrast with their shades ?
EPISODES. 126
Honoral beautiful young bride,
May love henceforth your actions guide ;
And may your heart possess the key
Henceforth to unlock its mystery.
Then when it answers back the tone
Of him who won you for his own,
In kindness turn to Madeline —
Oh I call Tier love a pardoned sin I
EosA Bramble.
In the shadow of the oak-trees,
Just beside the leaning wall,
Stood alone young Rosa Bramble,
Looking steadfast towards the " Hall."
On the still air of the evening
Voices chimed like silver bells.
And the rustling silks made music
Like the sound in ocean shells.
Down the garden walk they fluttered,
Gayly talking all the while.
Till the students and the maidens
Stood within the forest aisle.
From the oak-shade still looked Rosa
At the gay and happy band —
Stealing from her eyes the tear-drops
With her slender little hand.
126 EPISODES.
"No one misses me," sbe murmured;
" In the cottage all is still,
And the voices in the woodland
Tempted me adown the hill.
"I must know if sweet May Arden
Walks this evening in the grove,^
For I know her childish beauty
Wins the wealth of praise and love.
" Yes, I see her, she is walking
With the proud step of a queen ;
Daintily her slipper presses
Mossy banks of freshest green.
** Now her white dress is embroidered
With the sun's last gift of gold 1
And the pencilled shade of leaflets
Falls upon each snowy fold ;
" While upon the lace-edged bosom
Light is breaking into gems,
And they cluster, thick and golden,
Round the fairy little hems.
" Then her hair, like rich brown satin,
Coiled up in its silken net.
Wears a circlet of sun-jewels.
Richest of the golden set.
*' Bright May Arden I she forgets me,
In her beauty, in her pride I
Rosa Bramble's but a shadow
Walking at May Arden's side.
EPISODES. 121
" Strange it is, she loved nae ever,
I, so drooping and so frail —
She so faultless in her beauty,
Never languid, never pale.
*' I have hair like blackest midnight —
No jems flash amid the jet —
Hers is browner than ripe chestnuts
When the dew is on them yet.
" And at Tangle Tarn, the flowers
Than my face are not more white ;
But a sun-kissed peach just gathered
Blooms like May's cheek, fresh and bright.
"Then her robe is light and graceful,
Rose-hued ribbons float around —
But my dress is plainer, darker,
Than this spot of shaded ground.
" Oh, May ArdenI 'tis not envy
Stirs such thoughts in Rosa's heart;
She but yearns to taste your pleasure.
She but sighs to have a part.
" Though the lot of Rosa Bramble
Is a thorny one and wild.
She must feel athirst for beauty,
Looking on a sun-crowned child."
" Rosa Bramble, I have won you,
You are now Paul Arden's bride !
Does your heart repent so quickly ?
Do you wish me from your side ?*'
128 EPISODES.
Thus Paul Arden spoke to Kosa,
Entering in the chamber-door,
Stepping on the bars of silver
Oast by moonbeams on the floor.
** My poor heart is weak and weary,"
Rosa Bramble sadly sighed ;
"Love has led me to the altai,
Still I'm not a willing bride.
" Sweet May Arden, in our childhood,
Was to me a sister dear :
To the memory of those hours
Falls the tribute of a tear.
" Proud May Arden, now a stranger —
Heir to all her mother's pride —
Now that we in truth are sisters.
Has Rose ArdM» claim denied."
Mallie.
The cabin in the orchard stood —
The orchard edged the wilder wood —
The spring was 'neath the hill ;
The rows of corn, the yellow grain.
Waved on a wide and sunny plain.
Divided by a rill.
Among the leafy apple limbs
Young birds were taught their earliest hymns,
Beside the cabin door ;
And sunbeams in the morning still
EPISODES. 129
Crept in the smooth-worn oaken sill,
And played about the floor.
There MaUie lived. The grassy road,
That every day her small feet trod
Schoolward with eag^r haste,
Was all she saw (outside her books),
Beside the cabin, trees, and brooks.
And forest-paths she traced.
Free as the light and air itself
Roved Mallie, dark-browed little elf,
When books were laid aside ;
Now whistling some impromptu tune,
Now stopping some wild twig to prune.
Hands bare and hat untied.
The sun had leave to kiss her face.
And only Nature taught her grace.
Through all her childish years.
Thus Mallie into girlhood grew.
Nor yet Life's first hard lesson knew.
That's always learned with tears.
And thus came on the autumn days.
With Indian summer's golden haze.
In Mallie's fourteenth year ;
And with unconscious heart she passed
The hours she dreamed not were the last
She would a child appear.
Then, one day, up the wooded hill.
And quick across the oaken sill,
With proud step passed a lad ;
And Maine's father he addressed,
9
130 EPISODES.
And all his poverty confessed,
And all the hope he had.
The time for school had just returned,
And in his heart ambition burned
That would be satisfied ;
Morning and eve he'd work for board.
And still have hours wherein to hoard
The wealth that was his pride.
And so, when Mallie's small feet trod
Schoolward the grass-grown country road,
Ralph walked it at her side.
Her dinner-basket quick was swung
Where his own books and satchel hung,
Ere Mallie's hat was tied.
And so it came to be at last.
Ere Mallie's fourteenth year had passed,
That with her pretty look,
While she her daily lessons learned.
Ambition from the boy was turned,
And Mallie was his book.
Then the long summer days came back.
But Ralph could turn not from the track
That Mallie made so sweet;
And so he stayed the corn to plant,
And meanwhile learned to find each haunt
Where wandered Mallie's feet.
And later, when the mellow peach
Hung temptingly within the reach,
Ralph pared them to be dried,
And spread upon the smooth clean boards
EPISODES. 131
The quartered fruit for winter hoards,
With Mallie at his side.
One of his various pleasant " chores"
Was moving, on the closet-doors
The buttons higher up ;
And driving in the cabin wall
New pegs for Mallie's hat and shawl,
For drinking gourd and cup.
For when the cabin logs were laid,
And pegs and buttons newly made.
The farmer's only pet
On tip-toe did beside him stand
Upreaching for him her right hand,
To have the buttons set
Just low enough, that she hersglf
Might carry from the white pine shelf
The things prepared for tea —
Oft fluttering in her mothers road
With many a dainty little load —
As busy as a bee.
But buttons, nails, and latches, aU
Seemed some way, each succeeding fall,
As if they had crept down
So low (she never could see how).
Only they were beneath her now —
It must be she had grown.
No more on tip-toe then she stood.
And certain circles on the wood
Of every inside door
Showed where the buttons had been placed,
132 EPISODES.
Only to be still higher chased
Up from the cabin floor.
She showed them all to Balph one day,
And in her pretty artless way
Talked about growing up ;
And with a pleased look, and a gush
Of laughing words that made her blush,
Brought out her small tin cup ;
And opening wide the closet door,
Knelt down upon the sanded floor
To hang it in his place —
Thus her boy-lover to convince
That she'd been busy ever since
With old Time keeping pace.
Then Ralph, before she thought to ask,
Went straightway to perform the task ;
And had the maiden stand,
Watching his happy sunburnt face,
While reaching up to each new place
That small, ambitious hand.
Swift flew the hours then o'er the lad —
This now was all the joy he had.
To study her sweet look ;
Now every other page was dull —
But this, with interest how full !
Oh I most bewitching book !
He conned enough of sober prose
To learn this book for him might close :
Still eagerly he read.
And whispered to his heart, at times,
EPISODES. 133
That memory should keep its rhymes
When present joys had fled.
Those joys did flee I the autumn days
With Indian summer's golden haze
Brought Mallie's sixteenth year.
Ah I conscious heart ! the two years past
She knew must end Ralph's dream at last,
His dream of love so dear.
So Mallie crossed the cahin sill,
And trod the green path down the hill,
And went away to school.
Her father, with a father's pride,
No good to Mallie e'er denied,
And love was all his rule.
And when the harvest all was sold,
The yellow wheat exchanged for gold,
Sweet Mallie took her part,
And left the school house by the brook,
And took from Ralph his favorite book,
Wherein he pressed his heart.
Slow dragged the hours then o'er the lad ;
And only this frail hope he had.
That when she came again
He'd t«ll her of his lonely heart —
He'd say they could not dwell apart.
For that were one long pain.
And then he cherished this resolve,
And still would every day revolve
The question in his mind.
All night he dreamed that she said yes —
134 EPISODES.
An daj he feared she*d like Mm less.
And answer him nnkind.
Then back she came one antmnn eye
To snatch from bo(^ a short reprieve.
And make the old f<Aks glad ;
Bnt thoo^ she smiled when Ralph was by,
She seemed, the while, so coldly shy,
It sore perplexed the lad.
Then on a golden afternoon.
When Mallie's heart seemed aD in tone.
To chnrch she walked with Ralph ;
Bat when they reached the wood-path lone,
Crone was her gayety of tone,
Kor seemed she like hersell
She tied her hat, and drew the rim
Low down, to hide her face from him.
And in her Prayer-book read ;
Or, in an absent-minded way.
Said things half-earnest, half in play.
Then wished they were unsaid.
Ralph with an effort then began.
With his premeditated plan,
As soon as she was still.
His color wandered out and in.
And shivered so his beardless chin.
She thought it was a chill.
They fell into a slower walk,
And Ralph commenced his low-toned talk
With saying she was sad ;
And that if she could only stay.
EPISODES. 135
Something he had a mind to say
About a hope he had.
" She listened ; and he hurried on,
To saj that he was sick and lone,
While she had been away ;
And now, that something made him know —
Indeed, his heart had told him so —
That she had not been gay.
A sigh stole up from Mallie's breast;
Why so, she could not have confessed,
Only she pitied Ralph ;
She wished he had not spoken so,
For she a separate way must go,
A long way, hy herself.
She told him this ; but he replied,
In bolder tones, with manly pride,
He could not let her go.
" Oh I take my hand," he said, " and come I
I can make you a happy home.
If you will not say no.
'* Through life it would be all my pride,
I^ Mallie, you were at my side^
To help you on the way ;
And if those tender little feet
Faltered along life's stony street,
Mallie, I'd be your stay."
Still Mallie gently answered " no,"
And sadly said she meant it so.
And could not change her mind ;
And yet she thought she ought to say.
136 EPISODES.
Before he went his lonely way,
She meant it not unkind.
The country church was then in sight,
And from the wood-shade into light
They came out side hy side ;
But hoth sides of the dasty street
Bore impress of a pair of feet,
And thu8 they did divide.
Before the days grew bleak and chill,
A new guest crossed the cabin sill,
And sat by Mallie's side ;
And Ralph said to his slighted heart,
" Thou seest why we two have to part^
Why my suit is denied."
He turned again to books forgot,
But cheerless seemed to him his lot.
With Mallie lost, yet near.
So one day passed he by the spring.
And, near the unused grape-vine swing.
Hid in the turf a tear.
His books and satchel too he had,
But not upon his arm, poor lad I
Did Mallie ^s basket hang ;
But in the woods, the careless birds
The same old tunes, without the words,
Together for him sang.
It was the road they used to walk.
The road where many a sweet-toned talk
The maiden had with Ralph ;
And in those walks it was, that ho
EPISODES. 131
Had learned to think the small word ** we"
Meant Mallie and himself.
Now slowly walked he all the way,
Hurting his heart with the delay,
And adding to its weight ;
Yet dreading much to reach the street
Where turned aside the little feet,
Before the church-yard gate.
Smile, older hearts ! smile if you will.
If age has made your thoughts lie still,
And '' love's young dream" is not.
Time now, 'tis true, his heart has healed,
And first love's fountain kindly sealed.
But memory holds that spot.
Mallie the stranger's hride hecame,
And then ceased Ralph's familiar name
To he a household word ;
And if it ever chanced to slip
From little Mallie's careless lip,
It died away unheard.
WlLLIAMSPORT, Fa., Sept., 1861.
Annie of Looking-glass Praibie.
I HAVE an idle hour. Meanwhile, I'll look
Over the pages of a sweet old book
That never gets mislaid ; but all the time
Lies open, at some simple-fashioned rhyme.
138 EPISODES.
Or quaint old story, that perchance may seem
To some no more than any passing dream —
But that to me is actual, plain, and true —
Old as a life-time, yet still freshly new.
I need but look ; my tired hand lies still,
And the time-scented leaves turn o'er at wilL
Here is a page, marked round with faded lines ;
And there another, where a picture shines ;
And many more bear dim, sad-looking stains,
That are, themselves, a wordless tale of pains ;
While in between lies now and then a leaf
Unburdened with a history of grief.
But laden with all sweet and happy words,
Gay, glad, harmonious as the song of birds.
Then there are pieces in it from Time's loom,
Woven to carpet Memory's shadowy room,
Whose breadths are rich with every brilliant hue
A rainbow or a sunset ever knew.
All crossed with twilight gray, and midnight black.
And gleams of silver from the moonlight's track.
'lis some of that strange web I now unfold,
With all its checkered yards and chain of gold.
There's pictures quaintly 'broidered on it, too —
Some of them prairie scenes 'neath skies of blue.
EPISODES. 139
Let a word-painting reproduce them here,
And touch anew what memory limns so clear.
♦ 4c ♦ * *
A home-nest's mirrored on the *' Looking-glass,"*
Like a small ark on emerald waves of grass,
That summer winds hreak iuto flowery foam,
Creating a green sea, white-capped with hloom.
In the cool shadows of a summer eve
Annie sits on the stile, a dream to weave ;
While from the Blue Mound, in the distance clear,
The unmilked cattle lazily appear;
And liquid laughter, with the tune
Of the clear hell, comes rippling after, soon ;
And ere the dream is finished, come the stars,
And the cows wait heside the pasture bars,
And the blent voices of the sisters fair
Like bird-songs freight the vocal evening air.
Annie awakes then with a happy sigh.
To drop the bars, and let the herd pass by ;
Then fairy Emma rustic music makes
With milky cascades falling into lakes ;
And grave Janette, upon her milking-stool.
Draws the white fluid out as if by rule ;
While mirthful Sadie, with the dimpled face,
Tempts little Dora to a frolic chase,
* The name of a prairie in Illinois.
140 EPISODES.
Or leads her o'er the greensward in a dance,
Beneath the mellow moonlight^s tender glance.
Thus came, thus passed, each year a happy June —
Thus waved and waned full many a harvest-moon ;
But the neat picture limned so plidnly here
Came but the once young Annie'a heart a-near.
♦ * * * «
Annie herself forsakes her favorite book,
To shape a graceful robe of white nansook ;
And all the while her shining needle flies,
A happy light smiles in her hazel eyes.
At last 'tis finished, and with blushing face,
Yet still with half-affected, easy grace.
She makes her simple toilet, with the aid
Of Emma, favorite sister, sole bridesmaid.
And when the kine lowed next beside the bars,
Annie dreamed bridal dreams beneath the stars ;
And the sad sisters of the brown-eyed bride
Walked in the prairie trail, all side by side,
Wondering why they had never seen before
The " Looking-glass" was but a barren moor.
« « « ♦ *
The short southwestern winter browned tiie ling.
And made the prairie-birds forget to sing.
But all the changes, sad or sunny, fell
When the wild Eden smiled, and all seemed welL
EPISODES. 141
So came a summer, smiling in deceit,
When Emma's heart with loved tmies learned to
beat
But unawares stole over her Death's cloud,
And Annie's dress was fitted for her shroud.
Little recked Annie, when the gift she gave.
It was to robe a young bride for the grave ;
Nor dreamed she yet of any other loss.
Though ready was the burden and the cross.
A smaller grave beneath the prairie sod
Received the casket of a gift from God,
That she had never, in her gladness, thought
The gracious Giver would so soon have sought.
Then she was orphaned, too, and 'twas her lot
For four at once to mourn, who n6w were not.
Scarce had the frightened smiles dared to come
back.
To seek about her lips their old-time track.
When they were chased again in grieved surprise,
Scared by the breaking of still other ties.
On California's shore a brother fell —
And in her ear tolled a new baby's knell.
Alas for Annie I never dreamed she more.
Save of the pearly gate and crystal floor
142 EPISODES.
That the bride-veil had shut out from her sight,
Till, one by one, went out each earthly light.
Only the one friend she had chosen for guide,
Witti the two sisters left, were by her side —
Tiie two who danced upon the prairie grass,
Ere graves were mirrored in the "Looking-glass;'
And when they laid the tired dreamer down.
Taking for memory, each, a ringlet brown,
Each looked into the other living face.
Detecting there disease's guileful trace —
Questioning with fear, " Which shall be left
To die alone, of kindred all bereft?"
Janette.
I DREAM of an old tree,
A crooked seedling peach,
That stood untrimmed —
Untrained, low-limbed —
Whose fruit a child could reach ;
Its cooling shade
, Just overlaid
A rude old mossy seat,
Hid from the cottage casement wide
By rocks piled on the eastern side —
It was her sad retreat —
Janette, Janette
EPISODES. Ii3
There, mournful days went she,
Each day with feebler tread,
Long hours to sit —
To muse — to knit —
To wish that she were dead ;
I see the place—
I see her face,
Just as it used to look.
When, white and wild and wan, it peered
Above the rocks, with gaze so wierd.
As if by hope forsook ;
Janette, Janette.
That look still comes to me
O'er mountain, lake, and land,
Though years agone.
Brain-clouded one,
Christ took you by the hand.
May he forgive
All we who live
Yet on the sunny earth.
Keeping our talents without use —
Treating our soul-gifts with abuse,
Regardless of their worth ;
Janette, Janette.
Better for her than me,
Poor feeble-minded one I
If I forget.
Or lose regret
For past unkindness done ;
But if I weep,
She, in her sleep,
Can never hear nor heed ,
144 EPISODES.
Only the Lord who called away
The soal that trembled in that clay,
Can pardon as I need ;
Janette, Janette.
Alas! how conld I see.
Walking a path like mine,
That she, untaoght —
By love unsought —
Could need, or for it pine ?
Ah ! once she said,
"With drooping head,
Her heart had dared to thrill ;
But she was teaching it to keep
Its lovely dream for aye asleep—
A sleep, end lying still ;
Jannette, Janette.
I did not seek the key —
I did not try the door —
Else I had been
Admitted in.
To see her heart's whole store ;
Then I had known.
How from my own
More favored spirit-shrine,
I might have spared, oh, many a prize,
Nor ever felt the sacrifice.
This work undone was mine,
Janette, Janette.
Too late I too late ! for me
To do that duty now ;
The will of God—
The shroud — the sod —
EPISODES. 145
Have all decreed it so ;
I only may,
Henceforth for aye,
Do it for all her kind.
Having an interest and a care,
A hand, a heart, a hope, a prayer,
For every half-lit mind ;
Janette, Janette.
Haitthobhden, Aagost, 1862.
Intekluoation.
Nellie, there's music in this clear ringing
Accompaniment to your sweet singing —
This ringing through the woods 1
The axe makes melody in my hands.
As I cut away in the forest lands,
Where sulky darkness broods.
The green savannahs are lying in light,
But we'll win them over, those sunbeams bright,
Before to-morrow noon.
And, Nellie, just where you are sitting now,
Beneath the cool shade of the oaken bough.
To-night shall beam the moon.
These dim frescades will be beautiful then,
When the light shall glimmer in glade and glen,
And on the runnel blue ;
When the pure-eyed stars on picket are out.
And the ghostly shadows wander about.
Like souls with sins to ime.
10
146 EPISODES.
\
Look, Nellie I my tree I it begins to lean,
And the prettiest sun-dart ever seen
Is being smuggled through.
It steps like a fairy from bough to bough —
A-coming I a-coming, to kiss your brow —
(I let it in for you.)
See, Nellie ! my tree is constrained to bow ;
The kingly oak learns humility now.
Before so fair a queen.
He's bending above you — he's stooping down —
Slow and majestical, yet with a frown.
And distant, haughty mien.
Spring, Nellie, my darling I now spring aside —
'Tis bending, breaking, above you, my bride —
Ohl fly before it falls I
Alas I her singing is suddenly hushed —
My bride and my hope together are crushed
Within the forest walls.
I was gayly working to let light come.
But interlucation brings darkness home —
Brings darkness and no light.
A sunbeam is resting on Nellie's head ;
But why does it crown her, if she is dead ?
Why shine in the midst of my night?
Lyton's Lilian.
Beautiful Lilian,
Spirit aerial I
Azure-eyed dreamer,
Being etherial !
EPISODES. 147
A mortal, yet moulded
Of heaven's material.
A visible woman,
Invisibly guarded —
With heart sweetly human,
But feelings unworded.
Gracefully feminine.
Poetic — ^ideal —
Deliciously dreamy,
Unworldly, unreal.
I see the dark abbey, —
The circle of sward —
The gray Norman columns,
Like soldiers on guard
The deep Gothic cistern —
The creepers and ferns —
The emerald willow
That over all mourns —
And in the green centre.
With fair, folded arm.
The child-woman Lilian's
Poetical form.
I see her reclining
In death-chamber shade —
I see her reviving
In sunshiny glade ;
I see her supported,
Frail, delicate reed.
By one, self-reliant.
Of whom sheliad need.
148 EPISODES.
I see her, a phantom
Of ** silvery whiteness" —
I see her, a shadow
Of unearthly brightness ;
A colorless " outline" —
A sighing Eolian —
A vaguely shaped figure,
Lilian! Lilian I
I see her spell-holden —
Evil enchanted —
I see her dream-tangled —
I see her ghost-haunted.
I see her soul-shadowed —
I see her mind-clouded —
Mystery — enveloped,
Solemnly shrouded.
I see her 'mid ruins
Blown on like a blossom-
No knowledge of danger
Awake in her bosom ;
No guile in her spirit —
No thought in her keeping —
Erring in innocence —
Intellect sleeping.
I go with the lover,
The dreamer in quest,
Down the glen, where, weary,
She halted to rest.
I find the lost ribbon —
The knot from her breast —
Amid the furze bushes,
Adown the wild dell,
EPISODES. 149
WLere waves of the streamlet
Low murmuring fell.
I go to the sea-shore —
The drear, lonesome spot —
The den of the charmer,
Where anchored the yacht.
I speed to the cliff-side,
The thorn-tree beneath —
I rescue, with Allan,
His Lilian from death.
I watch in her illness —
I woo back her health —
I worship her sweetness.
Forgetting her wealth.
The day of her bridal —
The hope of her heart —
Become of my living,
Material part.
I too feel the slanderer's
Sharp, poison-tipped dart,
And thrill like a victim
Of venomous art.
I suffer her sorrow —
I chill with her fear ;
The "Luminous Shadow"
** Scin Lacca" is here!
I burn with her fever —
I sigh with her breath —
160 EPISODES.
I lie in her chamber,
Awaiting her death.
And with her I waken
To love and to life —
Aronse from the dreaming,
Oome out of the strife.
Then passes the " Shadow"
Forever away —
Heart to heart beating
In life's real day —
Mind with mind basking
In intellect's ray —
Sonl with sonl meeting
Together to pray.
All-Hallov Etc, 1862.
The Unknown Grate.
The shadowy cliff, the mountain stream.
The warm and cloudless skies, were bright and
Beautiful with the last and sunniest
Smiles of May. Luxuriant vines of
Emerald hue, together twined their
Slender arms, to clasp those stern cold cliffs
In their embrace ; and lovingly they
Nestled there, while the rich, dark verdure
Of the trees drooped over them, as if
To hide from them the sunlight's laughing
Glance. Beneath them, through the silent vale,
A silvery streamlet murmured on its
Wildwood course. Dream-like shadows flitted
EPISODES. 151
On its ever dimpling waves, chasing
The sunny light away ; as pensive
Thoughts within the soul will change the glance
Of mirth to one of thought or sadness.
Half hidden in the matted grass, that
Fringed the banks of that sweet stream, fair,
Dewy-eyed young violets drooped on
Their slender stems. 'Twas here, where no loved
Friend could come to weep -where only night's
Gold tears, in darkness and in silence
Fell — a little nameless sleeper lay
Upon a cold clay couch, in Death's long
Dreamless sleep. Perhaps ero it was laid
To rest, a mother held the lifeless
Form to her sad heart, and wet the cold
White cheek with her warm, gushing tears, A
Gentle sister may have knelt, sadly
And tearfully, beside that lovely
Mountain stream, to clasp but once again
The little waxen fingers in her
Own, while looking towards the fair blue sky,
And breathing from the heart a fervent
Prayer.
But now 'tis left alone. No
Mother comes to weep, at twilight's hushed
And holy hour, beside the lowly
Bed, — no sister's gentle step comes there —
No hand strews on the sunken graves an
Offering of fair flowers.
St. Louis, Mo.
152 A MISCELLANY.
A MISCELLANY.
Mabgabet Mn.T.EB Dayedson.
Death, stei^ii death, " marks all that's fair and lovely
For its own," sweeping life's frail. chords, and
Blending its sweet music in " one death-like tone."
Like a bright dream, that fades with morning's rosy
Light, still leaving in the soul a sad, sad
Tone of lingering sweetness — she faded from earth,
ere
The spoiler's breath had blighted her frail beauty,
Or left one mark, save that it deepened the rose-tint
On her fair cheek, and lighted in her full
Dark eye unearthly fires. But the fairy
Strains awakened on her matchless lyre, still
Linger in hearts that echo oft a sweet response.
Ere the impress of childish thought had faded
From her pure young brow, her spirit revelled in
Shadowy dreams of angels and seraphs, and
Sweet-toned harps in the far-off spirit-land. And
When her dark eyes were upraised in thoughtful
gaze.
She would pierce the azure veil, and see among
The white-robed spirits a sister's angel form.
A MISCELLANY. 153
And why so fearfully and strangely glorious
To our earth-bound Souls that thus they held sweet
Converse ? Were not both angel-spirits, though one
was
Fettered with a form of clay? — lovely prison
For a spirit-bird I
Alas I the souls to which
Imagination's shadowy realm is closed,
Can never know the feeling of intense delight
That thrills the bosom where poetic fire
Glows upon the spirit's altar. They hear no
Unseen minstrels breathing strains like the sound of
A cascade's waters, murmuring far away ;
Ko spirit-forms seem gliding by, rustling their
Starry wings ; they read no language in the
Angel eyes of all the beauteous stars, nor does
The flower of fragile beauty afford to them
The type of earth's fairest forms, withered and pale.
All that was grand or
Beautiful in Nature kindled a "mysterious
Kapture" in her infant bosom ; and as she
Gazed upon the countless myriads of stars
That gem the vault of heaven, and melt in softer
Radiance the scenes of earth, she would sweetly
Murmur, " They are like the eyes of angels."
And the bright warm sunshine would call forth
her glad
Young feelings, and like a fairy spirit of
Their own creation, she would revel in its
Dreamy light, as it rested sweetly on the
Dimpling waves of the beautiful Champlain, and
Quivered like ten thousand golden arrows 'mong
The rustling leaflets of the ancient trees.
Thus her magic pencil hallowed every scene,
164 A MISCELLANY.
And all was beautified through the veil of her
Aerial fancy.
But now, alas ! the
Brilliant dream has fled. The sunlight of that smile
Has faded, leaving all shrouded in a deeper
Gloom. Her harp is hushed and still forever. " The
Sparkling fount has died within." Sadness steals
Over my young spirit, and I could weep the
Tears of woe for that bright gem, forever dimmed
To us. And still I have a pensive joy, for
In my spirit-dreams of her, I seem to hear
" The hymnings of her seraph lyre."
Like a rose that is withered, she rests in the tomb,
But the fragrance still lingers, though paled is its
bloom I
And the lyre that wakened such music on earth.
Now rings throughout heaven, the fair home of its
bii-th.
And methinks that I catch a sweet lingering strain
That fills my young spirit with pleasure and pain.
She has faded from earth like a beautiful dream.
But her memory lingers, like light on a stream ;
And how fondly we gaze on the lingering ray.
As the last smile that lumined her features of clay I
She is gone! the young spirit imprisoned so long,
Among angels now warbles her heaven-taught song.
Like a rose that is withered, she rests in the tomb,
But the fragrance still lingers, though paled is its
bloom.
A MISCELLANY. 155
To Helen.
Aot) is my young heart's purest love
Distrusted, and by tJiee f
Must it return like a lone dove,
To roam no more from me?
Think you the image, once so bright,
Oould fade away like transient light?
You dream not of the gifts I've laid
On friendship's lovely shrine,
All for that one you think can fade
From this cold heart of mine.
Ah ! 'tis not true and faithful love
That deems a Mend can faithless prove.
Fair girlish forms are round me now,
"With smiles and tones of love.
And pleasant light beams from bright eyes
As on they gayly move.
But my love, Helen, yearns to come —
"Wilt thou refuse to take it home?
Montiobllo'Sbminabt, Sept., 1852.
To Fannie.
[Reply to a remark made by F. B. in a remembered conyersation.]
Fannie, the poet-angel came
When I was but a child.
And kindled in my heart a flame
That still burns strong aud wild.
156 A MISCELLANY.
And sometimes in my spirit float
Fancies so sweetly fair,
I long to sing in gayest notes
Of all the beauty there.
But oh ! the power was never mine
To speak the half I feel;
And if a wreath of thought I twine,
'Twill but apart reveal.
The fairest flowers of feeling lie
Around my spirit's hearth,
And no one ever knows but I
They ever had a birth.
And then I grow so inly sad —
I feel so all alone —
And in my thoughts the bright and glad
find not an answering tone.
Fannie, dear Fannie, would you think
That this could all be true
Of one who gayly stoops to drink
At pleasure's well with you ?
You know that sometimes we are not
What we may seem to be —
You know that round a shaded spot
The pleasant light we see.
My laugh can be the lightest thing
That ever floats in air.
Although above me broods the wing
Of something like despair.
A MISCELLANY. 15t
And, Fannie, I have seen your eyes,
Shining with peaceful light.
Look as if clouds would fain arise
To bring on rain and night.
One thing, I know, is sweetly true —
'Tis that I always feel
The charm of gentleness with you
Around me softly steal.
A guardian angel you must be,
"With ways so soft and mild,
Keeping this influence over me
The wayward poet-child.
"BlEDIE."
ViKB LoDGB, Jane 19tb, 1853.
To Julia.
WbVe met in youth, dear Julia,
The rosy morn of life.
When Hope, with golden sunshine,
Veils all the future's strife.
Oh I brighter than the dawning
Of morning's early rays.
Shines hope upon the spirit
In girlhood's summer days.
We've met to tread, dear Julia,
Life's path a little while,
"With footsteps timed together.
Cheered by each other's smile.
But short will be the hours.
168 A MISCELLANY.
That flit like birds away,
And then we part to wander,
Each a different way.
Yes, we shall part, dear Julia,
And even may forget
That in the days of girlhood
We ever thus had met
But if, midst old worn papers,
These simple lines you see,
It may wake some remembrance —
Some passing thought of me.
" Je pense a vous."
I GAZE upon the sunset sky.
With bright clouds floating o'er the blue-
But far away my thoughts will fly —
Dear Emeline, Je pense k vous.
I gather violets fresh and fair,
So loved by spirits fond and true,
And then with all of friendship's care.
My Emeline, Je pense k vous.
When twilight spreads its dusky pall.
And starry lamps light up the blue.
My pensive tears, like dew drops fall.
For Emeline, Je pense d vous.
When, wearied out, I sink to rest.
And dreams, too bright to be all true.
A MISCELLANY. 159
Promise that we shall yet be blest —
Then, Emeline, Je pense k vous.
Sweet waking dreams are sometimes mine,
But whence they come I never knew,
Only they bring back words of thine,
When, Emeline, Je pense k vous.
ViNB LoDGB, May 10th, 1863.
Hal Starr.
^ir— "Ben Bolt"
Ah I don't you remember, sweet Emma, Hal Starr,
And her manner so winsome and kind ?
From our own sunny clime we have wandered far,
And her equal we never may find.
On the fair field of memory beams her soft smile,
Like a star in a mid-summer night,
And I turn from the present with you awhile,
To recall the by-gone with delight.
Ah 1 don't you remember the sweet time, Hal Starr,
When Vith Emma, so cherished and dear,
Our hearts banished all that the present could mar.
And excluded the phantom of fear ?
We have journeyed, Hal, on the high-way of life, —
We've passed together some weary miles,
But we cannot forget, in the toilsome strife,
The by-gone, bright with sweet Emma's smiles.
Ah 1 yes, we remember, sweet Emma, Hal Starr,
With a mingling of pleasure and grief-*—
With pleasure, because in our wanderings far
We may cherish the happy belief.
160 A MISCELLANY.
That we live in one heart, fond, faithful, and true,
And that sometimes in spirit we meet,
To live o'er the past, and old pledges renew.
That will mingle life's bitter with sweet
To H * * * * .
I WOULD forget the hours of gladness
That I have spent with thee ;
1 would close the gates of memory,
And bid those visions flee.
I would forget the thrilling sadness
Of thy deep, manly tone,
A mingling of woman's tenderness
With the sternness of thine own.
I would forget the nameless pleasure
That my young bosom thrilled.
And with its sweet and mystic spell
My very pulses stilled.
I cannot win forgetfulness I
It will not shroud from me
The sad but cherished memories
I ever have of thee I
For still, my friend, thy pleasant smile
Is sunshine to my heart,
That clouds can never hide from me.
Or memory bid depart.
A MISCELLANY. 161
And still thy tones of gentleness
Shall be music in my soul,
Awakening kindred melody
As o'er its chords they roll.
ViNB LoDOB, 111., February, 1851.
To A Lost Friend.
Eight years ago, this fall, Warren,
Our life-paths chanced to meet,
And eight years in the coming spring
You turned a lonlier street ;
I would that you had gone, before
Words meaningless were said ;
Then 'twould not shake my heart to hear
The echo of your tread ;
No, 'twould not shake my heart, Warren,
A heart for seven years wed.
K you are still alive, Warren,
And in your native land,
I wonder if this page will feel
The pressure of your hand ?
I wonder if your thoughtful glance
Would kindle with surprise.
To see this link of a lost chain
Glitter before your eyes? —
Link of a slender chain, Warren,
That bound forgotten ties.
I would give much to know, Warren,
If it were true my name
Became a root of bitterness —
A thorn, a sting of blame ;
11
162 A MISCELLANY.
Oh I idle words — ^impulsive deeds —
Would they could be undone I
Or only traced upon the sand,
Where dashing tides do run :
Tell me, mine were in sand, Warren,
Tide-washed before life's noon.
But if it be not wrong, Warren,
In me, a faithful wife,
I would unseal my lips to say
This once, in wedded life.
That next to him to whom I owed
The gift of heart and hand.
Ranked in my true regard the one
They said my smile unmanned.
Oh I say you were not one, Warren,
To build thus on the sand.
But if indeed I sinned, Warren,
This feeling in my breast
Has been sufficient to atone
For all your heart's unrest ;
For long ago have you forgot
My name, however dear.
But /, wherever my thoughts turn,
Find accusations near ;
'Tis well they're only thoughts, Warren,
And that you cannot hear.
I'm startled at my task, Warren,
As if it were a sin.
By the unweary little feet
Of children rushing in.
A MISCELLANY. 163
But no, it never can be wrong,
A wrong done to regret,
And so in penitence I say,
Better we had not met ;
This much I ought to say, Warren,
If face to face we met.
Hawthobhdbit, October, 1862.
To Eebecca.
You remember the sacred story well
Of BethuePs beautiful daughter,
Who went with her pitcher at even-tide,
To fill at the well with water.
And further adown the inspired page
Yon read how the servant sought her,
Displaying the presents of jewels rare
Which he, from Ms master, brought her.
You remember, too, how she journeyed far.
And from off her camel lighted.
Modestly veiling her beautiful face,
When Isaac his bride awaited.
And you know how her ti'usting heart was blest.
And how her love was requited.
When Isaac brought her to his mother's tent.
With her modesty delighted.
'Tis well for OS all to remember this.
And treasure its truth forever —
That our hearts may accept warm human love,
But modesty part with, never ;
That woman may true affection bestow.
164 A MISCELLANY.
Upon one who vows to cherish,
But still with reserve the rich gift mast guard,
Lest its brightness fade and perish.
Yon remember, too, how in after years,
She sinned — ^her husband deceiving.
And taught her own child to sacrifice truth,
While Isaac's blessing receiving.
Ah I truth is a pure and a priceless pearl,
To our children well worth giving :
How sweet to know that each word from their lii>s,
Our hearts are safe in believing!
Remember, then, the Rebecca of old.
Her beauty modestly hiding,
And may virtue lead you along life's path,
To tents of Happiness guiding.
But stain not the purity of your soul —
Let no serpent of falsehood gliding.
Tarnish the beautiful image of Truth
In your woman's heart abiding.
Bloomsbubo, Pa.
To RiA.
Don't you remember, Ria,
The summer evenings gone,
When we oft sat together.
Talking of sweet hopes flown ?
The mask I wore to others
Of gayety and pride,
Thrown off in the twilight hours,
When sitting by your side.
A M.ISCELLANY. 165
Have you forgotten, Ria,
How often in yonr room
We used to tell each other
Of absent friends, and home?
We sometimes talked so sadly,
Confessing secret fears,
And sometimes sat in silence,
Striving to keep back tears.
Do you remember, Ria,
The songs you used to sing
When thus we sat together,
Overshadowed by night's wing?
Sweet snatches of that music
E'en now are floating back.
Though since then I have wandered
Far on a wintry track.
Don't you remember, Ria,
How oft my aching head
Drooped down upon your pillow,
On that low, narrow bed?
And you, like some good angel,
A quiet vigil kept.
Charming away the aching.
Soothing me till I slept.
Another summer, Ria,
Is slowly coming on.
But let us still remember
The one that's past and gone.
For then we were together,
But ne'er shall be again —
And you will sing for others,
And others soothe my pain.
Lewisburq, Pa.
166 A MISCELLANY.
Impbomptu.
To an editor, who moorned over the losses of friends, and sngw
gested that it might be better to form no more attachments which
are so sadly broken.
Incidentally, sir, yon allude
To losses the heart has sustained —
Therefore, over the passage I brood ;
And since, I from my stand-point have viewed
The heart-bloom you still have retained.
Prisoned thoughts, like the dove from the ark,
Fly straight to the branches of green :
You uphold in the world's tide — a mark —
A signal of rest — a light in the dark,
That I from my window have seen.
You imagine you walk through the halls
Of the heart, where friends used to be,
Looking round on the echoless walls —
On the floor, where no spirit-foot falls —
And shut the door, turning the key.
And you come to the vestibule, back
To the door looking out of yourself
To the edge of the love-beaten track,
Where most of the flowers Time's frost doth black,
Save the dry one's for Memory's shelf.
And as out upon life you thus glance.
Its waste of cold waters to view.
The searching look of my soul, by chance
Over the billows between doth dance,
To rest on the branch held by you.
A MISCELLANY. 167
And to you^ in your last door unlocked,
Where you linger, yet dread to be.
My thoughts go forth. They could not have looked
To be taken in, if they had knocked
After you shut it, turning the key.
But the mission they have is to plead
That you open those heart-doors free !
For many a hungering soul may need.
On banquets of kindness like yours to feed.
That with doors shut you could not see.
Let the portals of hearts that are hard.
Lock in what the world should not see,
But, ah ! never, my friend, must be barred
A soul that no evil has scarred —
At least, leave it open to me !
VlITBLAND, N. J.
Mary Hawthorne.
^ir— -"Annie Laurie."
'Sylvania braes were bonnie,
'Sylvania skies were blue,
And upon sweet Mary Hawthorne
Fresh fell their simmer dew.
Fresh fell their simmer dew ;
Her heart then beat for me.
And for bonnie Mary Hawthorne
My luve swelled like the sea.
Her hair was like the gloamin'.
Her face like momin' light ;
Her smile, it was the sunrise
That chased frae me the night.
168 A MISCELLANY.
That chased frae me the night;
Her heart beat a' for me,
And for bonnie Mary Hawthorne
My luve swelled like the sea.
Like air through the blossoms sighing
Fell the tones o' her voice sae sweet ;
And like birds o' simmer flying,
Sae lightly flew her feet,
Sae lightly flew her feet;
But her heart stayed home wi' me,
And frae bonnie Mary Hawthorne
My luve nae mair went free.
Who is She?
Who is she, Lawrence,
Fairy or human ?
This lady Florence —
Angel or woman ?
Is she a maiden
With beautiful mind —
With heart love-laden.
And spirit refined ?
Fair is she, Lawrence,
And spirituelle ?
Does the name Florence
Its wearer fit well?
What kind of a look
Does her young face wear?
Is her brow a book ?
Is poetry there ?
A MISCELLANY. 169
Where is she, Lawrence,
Your beau-ideal ?
Is there a Florence,
Living and real ?
Is she a fairy,
Or child, or woman ?
A phantom airy.
Or something human?
Answer me, Lawrence,
Speak to me, brother.
Love you this Florence
More than another?
Tell me about her
(And let it be true)
Seems life without her
Now dreary to you ?
WiLUAMSPOBT, Pa.
To Mbs. Lieut. Eussell.
[Upon receiving a sweet bouquet of early wild-flowers, which
she desired to have presented without being known as the giver,
because we were yet unacquainted.]
I WILL not take the gift of flowers.
Except as sent by you^
Because your hand from wild-wood bowers
Brought them, my path to strew —
Fresh with the gentle spring-time showers,
And wet with your heart's dew.
Then offer not, my friend unknown.
The gift without the name ;
My heart refuses not to own
The source from whence it came.
ITO A MISCELLANY.
There's strength for thanks left in my tone,
Thbugh I sing not for fame.
Then gratefully I take the flowers —
Take them as sent by you —
Take them still fresh with spring's soft showers,
And wet with your heart's dew ;
And in my heart shall be a bower
For one I never knew.
ViNELAKD, N. J., April 2fith, 1864.
To Miss May D-
Who requested a few lines for remembrance.
SmoE last year with its sorrows died,
My harp has on the willows hung —
To touch it is to me denied —
My soul must keep its songs unsung.
'Twere better so ; an exile's strain
Must ever be more sad than sweet —
A needless note in the refrain
That floats in discord down life's street.
Yes, better so ; a prairie-bird
Set free upon 'Sylvanian hills,
Would know no song save that she heard
At first beside southwestern rills.
"Wait, wait then for a lighter lay,
Till out of range of guns I rest ;
Till pain and grief no longer play
Like traitor batteries 'gainst my breast
CuSHiOK Mountain, Pa., Aagnst Ist, 1864.
A MISCELLANY, lU
Eichie's Hair.
(To E. A. B.)
It rolled from the letter, the beautiful ring
You severed for me from the brow of your " King;"
' ris brown as a nut, yet 'tis shot with gold-light,
Like gleams of the sun athwart shades of the night
Ah I charmed little ring ! it recalls the by-gone.
And strangely reminds me of womanhood's dawn ;
And carries my heart back again to the spot
That knows me no more, that remembers me not ;
Hopes, then, like false lights in our future did shine,
But still it is sweet to remember "lang syne."
Oh, brown little lock! though unconscious, how
blest
To have lain for awhile on so gentle a breast I
I gaze, and remember, and envy its lot
Oh ! joys that we might have, why have we them
not?
The hand that caressed it, and made it to shine
Has been often and tenderly clasped in mine ;
And a circlet of gold I have worn for years.
Once shone on that hand, and the gift it endears;
My heart has its sorrows, but this joy is mine —
For your sake 'tis sweet to remember "lang syne."
Yes, beautiful hair 1 it has made my heart dream —
Yet again, when I catch its sunny brown gleam.
It awakens and hurries my thoughts all back
To the path of the present, to life's worn track.
I fancy it smiles, the bright sun- tinted curl.
When I talk In my dream of a " sweet, sweet girl."
172 A MISCELLANY.
'Tis this brings me back from onr womanhood's
dawn,
RecollectiDg, alas! that onr girlhood is gone.
But though I awake, recollections still shine
That render it sweet to remember "lang syne.'*
The EmGS of Haib.
I HAVE two sunny rings of hair,
Preserved for years with tenderest care ;
Intwined together they are laid,
The two half-linked in golden braid.
The twilight veil that shronds the Past,
My memory penetrates at last ;
I see the two bright beings now —
And those soft curls upon each brow.
The shadowy veil they've long since passed -
And swept alike by wintry blast,
Or summer's mild and fragrant breath.
They heed not, locked in arms of death.
Though seven changeful years have fled,
Since they were numbered with the dead,
Their tones of childish music still
Bring to my heart the old-time thrill ;
And in remembrance still I keep
Their last words, as they fell asleep.
A MISCELLANY. 173
Sweet words! " Pm going — going home."
Th&y soAJO the light — we felt the gloom.
But those words, like a healing leaf,
Lay on the bleeding wounds of grief.
Ah 1 much we murmured and repined,
Refusing long to be resigned.
But those last words would ever come.
Until we felt they were at home ;
At home in heaven among the blest —
Saved from all sin — at peace — at rest.
And this all murmuring thoughts must quell —
It is the Lord — He doeth well.
SUMXERFIKLD, IlXS.
JUUE.
Back to the green fields of the past,
'Neath childhood's bluer skies,
Beyond time's intervening waste
Do introvert my eyes,
To view behind these clouds enmassed
Life's earliest sun arise.
Together on that fair, fresh mom,
With some who now wre not^
We plucked joy's roses without thorn,
Hope's blossoms without spot;
But blasts of fate our flowers have tom-
Heart-rains have left a blot.
1T4 A MISCELLANY.
No happier child than Julie trod
Earth-walks in infant spring —
No prairie bird from prairie sod
Ere lifted lighter wing ;
Why should she bow beneath a rod
To which no blossoms cling ?
No blossoms have I dared to say?
Why should I murmur so?
When sorrow's cloud God clears away,
The smallest bud will grow ;
And in the light of coming day,
Will swell, unfold, and grow.
Her angel boy was Heaven's own gift;,
And Heaven, foreseeing ill.
In love the stainless one did lift
A brighter sphere to fill.
Thank Gk)d ! he is not now adrift
On waters never still.
Hath not* the stricken one belief
She may not now forget,
That in a heaven garnered sheaf
Her gathered bud is set ?
That by Tier mother this sweet waif
Was recognized and met?
Bid her look from the grave-marred earth ;
Faith brings the prospect nigh —
The beauty of his heavenly birth
Her heart should satisfy.
Then would she see her shadowed hearth
Spanned by a rainbowed sky.
October 29th, 1862.
A MISCELLANY. l^^
Jessie.
She climbed her happy father's knee,
And nestled in his arms,
To show the love-wealth of her heart
With all of childhood's charms.
Father and mother stood in light—
Love-light and sunset rays ;
Night came— and with the darkness, Beath-
Ah I those unfinished plays I
Yes, night and death/ but when the shade
Her starry eyes had dimmed,
One slender hand the features traced,
That on her heart were limned ;
And so, with kisses on her lips—
In farewell tears baptized.
The spirit of the baby passed,
When death at play surprised.
Strange that it eoutd surprise our hearts:
We saw the summer pass —
We saw the flowers drop into graves
Amid the prairie grass —
How thought we this exotic fair,
This plant of heavenly birth, '
Could live where native flowers die,
Through winters of the earth ?
But flowers of earth reblossom soon-
Spring's resurrection comes!
So in the soul-land's summer time,
Earth's lost exotic blooms ;
176 A MISCELLANY.
Pray God we may not be earth-grown,
To loDg for planting there —
Pray that our lives may yet be found
Sweet Christian fruits to bear.
Then with this last sweet summer rose
That beautified the fall,
We may be planted safe within
God's heavenly garden-wall —
Keset a-near the Tree of Life,
Upon Life's river-side,
Where never hath a spirit-flower
Of God's transplanting died.
December 14tb, 1862.
Entektained Unaware.
[To H. R, on the departure of the aogel she had entertained un-
awares.]
Wb ken not the guises of augels,
Albeit they are so fair ;
We entertain them as mortals-
Entertain them unaware.
A child came into your dwelling,
Fair as the angels are fair —
You knew not it was an angel,
And you kept it, unaware.
With wings invisibly folded,
Nor crown on his silken hair.
How could you tell 'twas an angel
You entertained unaware ?
I
A MISCELLANY. 1*1*1
He smiled, perchance, when sleeping —
Smiled as if dreams were fair,
Yet you felt not the presence of angels —
They visited unaware.
But now you ken that this spirit,
Gone out of his guise so fair,
Was not your child, but an angel
You entertained unaware.
And I pray that upon your pillow
You may dream of a heavenly stair,
And the angel beckoning upward,
That you took in unaware.
Hawthormden, October 7th, 1864.
The Golden Gate.
[In inemoriam of little Carrie Denokler, who was lost in the
burning at sea of the " Golden Gate."]
From the shore of California,
With the richest of all freight.
Out upon Pacific waters,
Buoyant rode the Golden Gate,
Bearing from the mines their treasures.
Bearing from the towns their wealth —
Taking from the plains and mountains
Grems of living hope and health.
'Mid its treasures, one home-jewel
Dimmed by contrast all the rest,
Taken in its native beauty
From a mother's love-thrilled breast,
12
118 A MISCELLANY.
To be sent for classic setting
Eastward, to Atlantic's shore,
Where the hand of education
Might enhance its brilliance more.
It was of resplendent lustre,
And designed for priceless fame,
By a heart that deemed it richer
Than his California claim ;
Yet 'twas rescued by the Giver
From temptations of such state.
Purified from dross in passing
Through the burning " Golden Gute."
Precious stone of uncarved beauty.
Though the first gate it passed through.
Gleamed all golden in its burning
On Pacific waters blue —
It another gate did enter
When safe borne across death's tide —
E'en the high and heavenly portal
That the angels open wide.
In God's wondrous heavenly temple,
He had need of such a gem.
And, ere human hands could mar it.
Bought it for his diadem.
There it finds a richer setting —
There it gleams in fitter frame —
And, sad souls, you'll see it shining.
If you there locate a claim,
ViKKLAMD, N. J.
A MISCELLANY. 119
Eebeoca.
Rest calmly, Rebecca, beneath the green sod ;
Rest calmly, thou'rt watched by the angels of God ;
The cold slab is warmed by the morning's mild beam,
But its brightness disturbs not your heavenly dream.
The dews of the night fall like tears on your grave,
And the sprigs of the myrtle sigh as they wave ;
But the sweet hymns of heaven fall soft on your
ear,
And your heart can know naught of a sigh or a tear.
The green turf sinks low on your motionless breast,
Where your pale hands are folded, and laid to rest,
But the heart is not weary beneath their weight —
It has passed from that bosom through heaven's
pearl gate.
The grass has grown tall on the sod o'er your feet.
Concealing the blossoms, blue, fragrant, and sweet,
That the hand of affection tenderly placed
On the spot that has laid a mother's heart waste.
Your lifetime, Rebecca, was but a short dream.
Your barque was soon wrecked on time's turbulent
stream.
But a beacon was shining off heaven's sweet shore.
And Christ moored you safe there, to rest ever
more.
Then rest there, Rebecca, enjoy your release,
Rest calmly and sweetly — such slumber is peace ;
180 A MISCELLANY.
Awake not when morning smiles on your low bed —
Sleep sweetly till Christ awakes all the loved dead.
WiLUAXSPOST, Pa.
"Light me thbough."
(Dying words of a Christian relative.)
^ Shadows are floating before the pale light,
My frame is tonched with the chill of death's night,
And I feel on my brow the falling dew —
Then bid me good-night, friends, and light me
through.
" I'm going to rest, but the way is drear,
Though One who has trod the dark path is near; .
Then gather around me, kind hearts and true.
And whisper farewell, friends! and light me
through.
*' Morning is coming. The morning of earth
Will shine on a lonely, desolate hearth ;
But / shall see light of a heavenly hue —
Kejoice, then, dear friends ! as ye light me through.
" The night is far spent, the day is at hand, —
Now gather around me the household band ;
Call all my loved ones to bid me adieu —
Oh ! let them stand near me to light me through."
They gathered around her, tearful and pale,
Till the hour for heart and flesh to fail —
They wiped from her forehead the chUl death-dew.
But a loving Saviour "lighted her through."
SONGS OP THE HFAKT.
SMiiiES AND Tears.
You think because a careless smile
Rests on me, gay and fair,
That thoughts of grief cannot the while
Secretly slumber there.
And yet that smile may be but worn
To please another's eye,
While in the heart some cruel thorn
Hidden and deep may lie.
When disappointments crush the soul
And weigh the spirit down,
Ajid clouds seem overhead to roll,
A mass of angry frowns,
You talk of brooding over woes
Unworthy of a thought;
But have you ever felt the throes
Of pain you set at naught ?
If your most cherished hope should fail.
And meet with early blight.
Would not your cheek with sorrow pale,
Your eye lose aught of light ?
182 SONGS OF THE HEART.
Oh ! there is cause for tears and sighs,
And times when we must weep,
And woe oft waits to dim young eyes,
When others close in sleep.
ViKE Lodge, HI., 1860.
Sadness.
It steals
Upon the restless spirit, hushing its
Glad music, and bidding each starry hope
Pause in its bright career ; and the light
Of love and beauty, that ever glows upon
The altar of the heart, burns dimly. Then
Tlie fairy dreams and sweet imaginings
That floated by like rosy clouds, radiant
With the sun's last smile, melts sadly from the
Tear-dimmed sight.
Oh I why is it, that when the
Heart is revelling in visions of fair
And sunny beauty, all too bright for cold
Keality, that this strange feeling of
Unspoken sadness, must steal over the
Trembling chords, and silently and sadly
Crush the low-breathed strains of harmony ?
I've sat and mused of things that live but in
My own imagination, of seraph smiles
That flooded all my soul with sunny light,
And glances from soft starry eyes, that gem
The heaven of pure dreams, and fill it with
The radiant light of beauty — ^till my young
Bosom heaved with its excess of joy. Then
SONGS OF THE HEART. 183
All those sweet unreal things would fade,
And sadness bid those wild pulsations cease —
Those beauteous dreams forever flee ! Oh I then
The mournful spirit longs to close its rainbow
Gates, and shut out from its shrinking gaze the
Dim and joyless scenes of earth. 'Tis like
Arising from a sunlit dream to gaze
Upon a clouded sky.
I have always
Loved those spirit-flights, and those sweet hours of
Pensive thought, when the soft twilight hour comes
Stealing on, and all is wrapt in calm repose
And I had thought that no one knew the
Secret joy my bosom felt, or loved the
Thoughts so dear to me ; but now I know that
There are hearts whose trembling strings are tuned to
The same sad music, and whose sweetest strains
Can be awakened by a thrilling touch.
And now those hours are dearer far to me
If my young eyes but meet an answering gaze
From one who has a kindred heart — a heart
Of gentleness and truth — a soul all
Radiant Vith sympathetic light. And
If that gaze I cannot meet, then will I
Mingle thoughts of its deep light with the
Sylph-like forms that lend their witching beauty
To my dream.
Oh I it were far too beautiful,
Too bright, and my lone heart would revel in
Too deep a joy, if the sweet sunshine of
The smile I love could always beam on me,
And the music of a true friend's voice fall
184 SONGS OP THE HEART.
On my willing ear. Sweet smiles and tones of
Love are lavished upon hearts icy cold
As chiseUed marble, while those whose yomig
Affections gush forth beneath one magic
Look, or word, or tone, that breathes aught of the
Music of the heart, are doomed to tread the
Lonely pathway of this life without that
Precious gift.
Oh ! life would not oe lonely,
Kor would we heed the cruel thorns that
Cluster round its sweetest, fairest roses,
If the light of love could beam but once
Again in eyes now cold and rayless, and
The sweet sunlight of happiness lend
Warmth and feeling to the smiles of those who
Are estranged. Then would the trembling words of
Love that linger on the parted lip gush
Forth, like the pent up waters of a
Crystal fount, to meet a sweet response from
Hearts all gentleness and tender trust.
Vims Lodge, Jan. 6, 1852.
Love Not.
"LovB not I love notl the thing you love may change,
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you ;
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be truej^
Mrs. Oaeolinb Nobton.
Love not ! what bitterness the heart must wring,
What grief its trembling chords must crush,
SONGS OP THE HEART. 185
Ere it can rudely break the spells that cling
Around young hearts in holy trust I
Oh I it must be the blighting woe of years —
The agony of love estranged —
Thus to unseal the hidden fount of tears —
To wring such words from spirits changed.
Love not ! Ah, soon enough will sadness come,
Love's transient sunshine to dispel,
And clouds will lower o'er the spirit's home.
And sighs too soon the bosom swell ;
Oh I breathe not, then, to young and trusting hearts
Words fraught thus with life's deepest woe I
Too soon, too soon, speed the unerring darts
That cause heart-bleeding tears to' flow.
Love not ! How heavily such words must sink
Into a heart that yearns to trust.
And dreams not that upon its fountain's brink
Love's flo wet's may wither to the dust.
Oh I dark and bitter words I what voice can find
The power to speak their saddening truth —
Knowing that they will break the chords intwined
Around the dreaming hearts of youth I
Love not I I could not tell a trusting heart
The one so fondly loved will change —
That smiles from rosy lips would soon depart,
And beaming eyes " grow cold and strange."
And yet there's something now within my soul
That tells me 'tis not all a dream^
But that the tide of grief ebbs but to roll
O'er many a heart lit by love's beam.
186 SONGS OF THE HEAET.
Love not I Athwart my spirit's changing sky
A gleam of love will sometimes glide,
And it is all in vain for me to try
To listen to the voice of pride.
My heart must love — it cannot live alone,
To something stronger it must cling —
All through this dreary world it cannot roam,
Throbbing beneath its own frail wing.
Then let ns love ! and for a few short years
Our hearts with happiness may thrill,
Forgetful of the dark sealed fount of tears
That may gush out their depths to fill.
Love in ^he heart is like a beauteous bird,
And if imprisoned there alone.
Will pine for love-light and endearing words,
And flutter at the first sweet tone.
Then let us love ! 'tis better far to throw
The gathered wealth of love away,
Than live until our hearts have lost that glow,
Warmer than sunlight in sweet May.
Oh I it must be a dark and mournful thing
To feel the heart with time grow old,
Unshaded by affection's loving wing.
And no buds blooming in its fold.
ViNK Lodge, Feb., 1862.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 181
A Fragment.
* * * Ere the glad hours of youth have
Fled, and while their rosy tints yet glow
Around us, and fair morning flowers lie
Fresh upon life's pathway — to fond
Expectancy we give the golden
Hours. Our dreams are bright as rainbow hues ;
Beautiful as when, at dawn, the pale
Gray sky glows in the fast appeai-ing
Light,
Then, in graver years, when clouds
Have dimmed the summer skies, memory
Recalls those morning dreams, to mock us
With their fair deceiving hues.
ViKB Lodge, May, 1852.
A Plaint.
(Written in sickness.)
On I many a sweet '* bird-warbled strain"
Is floating on the air.
Waking responsive melody
In bosoms young and fair.
And warm young hearts are revelling
In many a beauteous dream.
And gilding all the coming years
With hope's pure golden beam.
Alas! my fairest dreams have fled,
And yet they haunt me still,
188 SONGS OF THE HEART.
Until my aching brain grows wild,
And my sick pulses thrill.
What bitterness it is to feel
That life's best, sunniest hours
Have faded from us like the hues
Of evanescent flowers I
My spirit folds ite weary wings
To droop in silence now,
For there is blight in every breath
That fans my burning brow.
ViHS LoDOB, May* 1862.
To Die and be Forgotten.
'Tis sad to know that I must pass
Like some wild dream away,
Or perish like a flower of spring
That blooms but to decay;
That those I shrine within my heart,
And give my purest love,
As the flowers give their fragrance
To winds that float above, —
That from their memory I must fade
For those more bright and fair,
When I would give my wealth of lovo
To be remembered there.
The flowers that now expand for me,
Will then for others bloom,
SONGS OP THE HEART. 189
Who will not give a passing thought
To one within the tomb.
The wild and twining brier-rose,
Simplicity's sweet flower,
That oft I've in my bosom lain
To cheer a lonely hour,
Will then be culled by other hands,
Near other hearts be laid,
That never have a thought of one,
Doomed like that flower to fade.
The winds that I have loved to hear
Breathe through the forest lone,
Will whisper then to other hearts
In the same changeful tone.
Alas I 'tis hard to bear the thought
That loved ones will forget —
That changing years can make it seem
As though we ne'er had met.
'Tis hard to feel that time can thus
Estrange all kindred minds,
When once each thought of those fond hearts
Together were intwined.
I watched a lovely bud unfold
Its tiny leaves this spiing,
When the mild air that breathed around
Seemed stirred by spirit- wings.
And when my blushing flower grew pale,
And feebly drooped its head,
190 SONGS OP THE HEART.
I mourned as though all lovely things
From this sad world had fled.
But now I have another rose,
As lovely in its bloom
As that sweet flower now passed away
Into its grassy tomb.
And thus 'twill be when I am gone —
The love that now is mine
Will briefly mourn, and then go out,
Round some new heart to twine.
My Girlhood.
Mt life has been like sommer skies
When tbey are fair to view,
But there never yet were hearts or skies
Clonds might not wander through I
Mbs. L. p. Surra.
The dreamlike years of girlhood
Are passing o'er me now,
Nor have they left a shadow
Upon my cheek or brow.
They have not hushed the music
Within my youthful heaii;,
Or stolen one fair image
With which I would not part
No blast of real sorrow
Has swept across my path.
To wither love's sweet blossoms
With cold and icy breath ;
SONGS OP THE HEART. 191
Still affection's changeless light
Within a mother's eye
Beams with all the radiance hright
Of stars in midnight's sky.
And still my heart is lonely,
I never can tell why —
'Tis ever filled with longing
For something pure and high ;
And still my bosom's gladness
Is shadowed by a spell,
That holds with wondrous power
My soul's most hidden cell.
Even when I am wandering
In summer wood and vale.
And bird songs free are floating
Upon the murmuring gale —
I've thought in their wild melody,
Gushing so free and glad,
That there seemed something pensive,
A something almost sad.
Alas I 'twas born within me—
I cannot break the spell,
And thus 'twill ever bind me
To drink at sorrow's well.
Where others see all sunshine,
And naught but what is fair,
For me there is a shadow
All darkly waving there.
ViKB LODGK, 1862.
193 SONGS OF THE HEART.
The Summer's Light.
Thb sommer's golden light has faded
Like the soft light of a dream,
And we sadly watch its hrightness
Melt away from grove and stream ;
And the sunbeams down in pity
On the rainbow-colored woods,
And earlier than in sammer-time
Dosky twilight o'er ns broods.
Yes I the summer's light has faded
Like the soft light of a dream,
And the traces of its glory
Fast are leaving grove and stream.
Now the air is bine and smoky.
And its ardent heat is gone ;
Sooner fBdl the shades of evening,
Later comes the morning dawn.
Vufs LODCB, IlL, 1852.
Sympathy.
How strong the links of that bright chain
That winds around the heart —
Its sweet existence cherished there,
And of itself a part!
'lis strange that oft a thought expressed
Can touch a sensitive string
Li other hearts, and to ihe eyes
A tearful tribute bring.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 193
When shadows on my own heart fall,
And when I am alone,
The thoughts so sad I often write
May find an answering tone.
For mine is not the only heart
Where sadness droops awhile,
To chase away the influence sweet
Of every happy smile.
No, I am not the only one
Alive to pangs of woe,
For tliere are sympathizing hearts,
And kindly ones, I know.
Offctimes I feel a crushing weight
Pressing my spirit down,
Only because there's so much pain
In hearts beside my own.
I cannot see another wear
A look of grief or pain,
Without awakening in my heart
Pity's most tender strain.
While sadness holds my youthful heart
In its resistless thrall.
The griefs of others ne'er can fail
To cause my tears to fall.
St. Louis, Mo., 1853.
13
194 SONGS OF THE HEART.
Teabnings.
** Give me bot
Something wherennto I may bind my heut,
Something to love, to re»t apon, to clasp
AffectioD^a tendrils roand.^
On ! for a kindred spirit !
A heart to beat with mine,
Whose tendrils of affection
Around mj own may twine !
Oh ! for that true devotion,
That, like a shaded well,
8end» up its living water
When drawn by love's sweet spell I
How often in my bosom
Is this vain murmur stirred.
For some sweet voice in music
To breathe endearing words I
And then my very tenderness
Comes like a matchless dove.
And in my bosom nestles
Without a thing to love.
Back to their shaded fount^n
Affection's waters flow,
Without the radiant sunlight
They pine for, as they go.
Just like a hart that's thirsting
For waters cool and pure,
So is my spirit longing
For love that wiU endure.
SONGS OF THE HEART 195
I drank once at the fountain —
'Tis strange I thirst again :
Oh I for deep oblivion
To roll o'er all my pain I
Can nothiiig still the whisper
Like music's dying gush,
That floats to me at twilight
And in the midnight's hush?
Dreams come then to my spirit
Of love's beguiling tone,
That ere I wake to listen
Are gone again — all gone I
And heaven-blue eyes are haunting
My ever restless sleep
With tender love and sadness.
Compelling me to weep.
Strains of persuasive music
Across my heart-strings flow,
RecaUiog things forgotten
Of days long, long ago.
And then I grow so lonely.
So full of sad unrest.
And strange conflicting feelings
War in my troubled breast ;
Yet scarce heed I the whisper,
'•Turn thou from earth away,"
So prone am I to linger.
So well content to stay I
. Louis, Mo., 1853.
196 SONGS OP THE HEART.
The Two Pictuees.
I HAYS two pictares in my heart-7*
I keep them side by side,
That the same light that feJls on one
May o'er the other glide.
One is a gentle, moonlight face,
With eyes where shadows sleep.
And lips that seem to breathe the songs
That used to make me weep.
Her dark hair parts npon her brow
So young and smooth and fair,
Yet I who know her heart so well
Can see a shadow there.
Oh I mournful eyes, how oft I've gazed
Into their depths of blue.
Till, adding all the gloom of mine,
They darker, sadder grew I
Oh I ruby lips, how oft they've pressed
Their warmest kiss on mine.
When round each other's girlish forms
Our arms would fondly twine !
But that is past, and I must now
Kemember days gone by.
And find how true that happiest hours
Are always swift to fly.
Now slowly from that picture dear
I turn my eyes away.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 191
To meet the glance that thrills my heart
Through dreaming night and day.
I look upon his forehead pale,
I see his curling hair,
And mark the serious, earnest look
I always see him wear.
I look into his eyes, and feel
Their influence sweet and strange.
Just as I felt it when at first
It made my young heart change.
Their names are linked together in
My never spoken thought,
And oft it seems that her young life
Is with his own inwrought.
And thus it is, that I love him.
And yet have many a dream
That I may part with him, to glide
Alone down life's dark stream.
ViHB LODGB, Jtme, 1853.
Fantasia.
I TAKE my sad neglected lyre
To chant another strain,
Fraught with all the impassioned fire
That's burning in my brain.
I turned from this poor harp away,
And said I would not wake
198 SONGS OF TH£: HEART.
Upon its chords a single lay,
Although my heart should break.
I said this fever of the soul
Might coDqner even life,
Before the flood of song should roll
Like lava o'er its strife.
But ah I there is a gush of song
Like storm- waves on the sea,
And such wild thoughts my spirit throng
That they have conquered me.
Oh! I am all too young to bear
In life so sad a part —
To live among the gay and fair
With such a mournful heart.
I dare not think how dark a change
Has clouded my life-dream.
Making the world more cold and strange
Than it was wont to seem.
I've struggled in the still night-time
To break love's tightening chain,
Striving to think but of that clime
Where fall no tears of pain.
But love had grown too deep and strong
To perish with my tears.
For I had cherished it too long —
Even from childhood's years.
And now, alas ! when my poor heart.
With its long struggle worn,
SONaS OP THE HEART. 199
Seems cold enough with love to part,
It feels another thorn.
I own 'tis joy that I may bring
My exiled love again
To be a bright acknowledged thing
Where once it hid with pain.
But ah I the black bewildering spell
Lies on my spirit yet ;
Another mourns — all is not well —
This, this must I regret.
Jane 16th, 1853.
A Dbeam-Thought.
There is a thought, a cherished thing.
To which my heart will fondly cling.
Although I know 'twill shadows fling
O'er my young life.
Fve tried to break the glittering chain,
Nor feel its tightening links again,
For it can bring me only pain
And bitter strife.
And yet 'tis tempting thus to dream —
To feel hope's ever radiant beam
Awhile within my young heart gleam —
A sun-bright ray.
I fear its brightness soon must fade.
Like light within a sylvan glade,
That oft has through the foliage played,
Then danced away.
200 SONGS OP THE HEART.
But while there still is light to shine
I'll let it in this heart of mine,
As lightnings in a shining line
Ronnd black clouds play.
At Sunset.
Tms eve the angels must have gazed
Upon the azure sky,
Until the sea of air has caught
The hue of every eye.
'Tis like a clear unruffled lake
With many a bright cloud isle.
That rests all motionless and still
In sunset's last warm smile.
The spirit of the summer wind
Has gently fallen asleep.
And fragrant dews are falling down
like tears that angels weep.
Be still, my harp. I go alone
To wander at this hour :
Wrapt in a robe of pleasant thought,
rU feel its gentle power.
June, 1863.
Expectancy.
The shadows deepen, and the whispering air
Breathes tender words to me,
SONGS OF THE HEART. 201
As it comes stealing thro' the vine-wreathed porch
Where I sit wearily.
Thus, often at the twilight hour I sit,
With one hand 'neath my head,
And start, and waken from my dreaming wild
To hear a well-known tread.
That gentle tread I when stars peep thro' the vines
All heavy with the dew,
It comes I and then my heart heats high to hear —
"To-night I'll be with you."
But often at that still and lonely hour,
When I am thus alone,
I listen, half expecting soon to hear
That welcome step and tone —
And yet it comes not ; though with dewy eyes
I peer where shadows lie,
And send out from my bosom's depths of love
A vain, unanswered sigh.
I cannot find the language to express
The sweet but mournful thrill
That rushes through my spirit's inmost depths,
And makes my heart stand still.
For I grow sick with waiting all in vain
The coming step to hear.
And think that I will never hope again,
Until I know 'tis near.
202 SONGS OF THE HEART.
But still I wait and wish that he would come,
And kindly speak to me,
For then I know full well that all this gloom
Would from my spirit flee.
August, 1863.
Good-night.
Good-night, dear love I How oft I say
Those fond words ere we part!
And yet one moment more I stay,
Pressed closely to your heart
Oh ! dearly do I love to rest
This weary head of mine
"Within the arms that I love best —
Those gentle arms of thine.
Good-night, dear love! again, good-night I
Now lead me to the door.
And do not let the flickering light
Gleam o'er the darkened floor.
I take no lamp to guide my feet,
Or cheer the silent gloom
That chills my spirit's fancies sweet,
And fills my lonely room.
Good-night! I've said it twice before —
I'll speak it once again,
And when this last sweet parting's o'er,
I'll surely leave you then.
Midnight is past — ^the feeble light
Is burning very low —
And though 'tis hard to say good-nighty
Dear love, I now must go.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 203
When light heams on the window-pane
At early, bright snnrise,
The only drops of autamn rain
Will fall from my sad eyes.
For then, dear one, you'll go away
And leave my heart alone ;
No hand will o'er its still chords stray
Or wake its deepest tone.
Then, dearest love, good-night 1 good-night I
I go from your embrace ;
I must no longer watch the light
Of love upon your face.
Oh I lave — ^how much of pain it brings
To hearts so young as mine,
For when I say good-night, I cling
More tenderly to thine.
Viirs LoDOB, September, 1863.
My Soul.
My soul is like the sunny sky,
And through its cloudless fields of air
Bright birds of thought are flitting by.
Swift- winged and beautifully fair.
With wild despair I call them back,
As, one by one, they disappear,
Or gaze along their azure track
Till sunlight's darkened by a tear.
Again, my soul is like the sky,
When daylight fades to twilight gray,
204 SONGS OP THE HEART.
And evening winds begin to sigh
And through the trembling foliage play ;
For then pure thoughts most radiant gleam.
Filling my soul with lovely light,
Just as the stars in beauty beam
Upon the dusky brow of night.
Again, 'tis like a full-toned harp,
With angel fingers on the chords.
Thrilling with songs the darkest part,
Too wildly sweet for human words.
There's not a song by sweet lips sung
That ever thrills my frame like this,'
Or tone upon the free air flung.
So fraught with joy, so full of bliss.
And yet I could be happier far
If I could only change my heart,
And have no thoughts, like bird or star,
To come and then so soon depart.
I strive to make each bright bird mine.
As it flits by on radiant wing ;
But ah I 'tis ^1 in vain I pine.
For such a great and glorious thing.
Each bird in distance fades away.
Each brilliant star grows faint and dim,
And angel-fingers cease to play.
Or change it to a wailing hymn.
And then my soul is like a room
Left desolate and lone at night,
With not a lamp to light its gloom,
Or mark the voiceless hours' flight.
October, 18SS.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 205
Bury me in the evening.
Saggested by Mrs. 8. J. Hale's poem, " Bury me in the morning."
BuET me in the evening, mother,
Oh I lay me down to rest.
When the last red gleam of sunset fades
From out the rosy west ;
For I would not have the morning light
In merry mockery play
So soon upon my new-made grave, —
On clay that covers clay.
Then hury me in the eve, mother,
And lay me down to rest
When the gorgeous light of sunset fades
From out the tinted west.
Bury me in the evening, mother,
Oh I lay me down to sleep
Just when the pitying tears of night
Will o'er my fresh grave weep.
I know the sunbeams in early morn
Will kiss those tears away,
But not ere they damp the heavy clods
That on my bosom lay.
Then bury me in the eve, mother.
And lay me down to sleep
Just when the beautiful tears of night
Will o'er me kindly weep.
Bury me in the evening, mother.
Oh I lay me in that bed
Where never again the arm of love
Will pillow my young head.
> SONGS OP THE HEART.
Then give me a last, a liDgering kiss,
And whisper a good-night,
Although I may not answer back
From lips all cold and white.
Then bury me in the eve, mother,
And lay me in that bed
Where never again love's hand may smooth
The pillow 'neath my head.
Bury me in the evening, mother,
And let the night-winds come.
To murmur mournfully as I sleep
Within the grave's deep gloom.
And the same cool winds will darkly steal
All through my room all night,
And they'll tell you of my vacant place,
And of my spirit's flight.
Then bury me in the eve, mother,
And let the night-winds come.
To murmur mournfully as I sleep
Within the grave's deep gloom.
October, 1863.
Dark Thoughts.
Oh I that I had never known my own
Sad heart, with all its wild impassioned
Waves of feeling, that roll like burning
Lava through its rayless depths. Then had
I never known that over its still
Chords, the spirit of undying song
Had swept its starry wings, and kindled
In its depths the wild poetic flame
SONGS OF THE HEART. 20t
That never can die out. My heart was
Like the midnight, cold and dark, without
One heam of light unveiled, to pierce the
Gloom, until the angel of sweet song
In silence came, and left this one pale
Star. But now I would give hack the gift.
That never more these mournful strains might
"Whisper to my weary over-burdened heart; for oh !
Such dark bewildering thoughts, so passionate
And unholy, have robbed me of all
Calmer joy, and left an aching in
My worn-out heart, that one so young should
Never know.
And when the flood of song
Is rushing through my soul, I touch my
Untaught lyre, and breathe in hurried strains
The thoughts that struggle to escape from
Their lone prison-cells, the chambers of
This darkened heart. And then, when I have
Breathed the last wild note, the echoes ring
Throughout my soul, and bring them back once
More ; and through ray frame a feeling creeps
As though a spirit laid its icy
Fingers on my brow, as if to cool
The flush of fever burning there. Then
Melancholy thoughts steal in, with dark
Despair, because the sweetest strain that
I can sing is cold and passionless
To what my feelings are.
It is a
Bitter thought to me, that what I love
And cherish in my deepest heart must
Glow with unseen brightness there, and die
Away ; just as a lamp at midnight
208 SONGS OP THE HEART.
Flashes out upon the gloom that like
A pall is drooping o'er the world. Oh !
Spirit .of the sweet-toned harp, take hack
Thy dangerous gift I My heart has bowed, a
Fervent worshipper at thy dear shrine,
And round each thought of mine thy golden
Chain has long been bound. But, oh ! take back
Thy gift, and give me in its stead the
Calm untroubled dreams that live in
Girlish hearts — ^in every heart but mine ;
Then will the star-lit glance of hope beam
On my brow ; and when I sleep, his wings
Will gently droop around me, that e'en
My dreams may all be bright. Alas I it
Cannot be! — that one pale star still shines
Upon my spirit's altar, and the
Angel will not take it back.
St. Louis, Mo., 1853.
Music.
Give me sweet music when the light
Of day grows dim ;
Let it sink softly in my heart —
A solemn hymn.
Let it steal gently all along
The twilight aisle,
Where memory o'er her treasure broods
Without a smile.
Give me sad music when my heart
Is full of tears.
And the soul's shadows wander back
To by-gone years.
\
SONGS OP THE HEART. 209
Let it be like a sweet bird's song
When summer's fled,
And the flowers in the woodland paths
Lie pale and dead.
Give me rich music when I feel
Poetic fire
Like lightning run along th^e chords
Of my soul's lyre.
Let voice and harp their music blend
The air to fill,
And I will drink in with my breath
The holy thrill.
Give me glad music when the beams
Of golden light
Fall round me from the wings of joy
In its quick flight.
Like the sweet flow of crystal waves
At even-tide.
Let it join the river of my thoughts,
Ajid onward glide.
Oh ! give me music that can change
With every thought.
As it floats o'er the mind's dark sea,
With danger fraught —
For thoughts upon that sea are like
Some fragile bark.
Sent out to drift upon deep waves
When it is dark.
Then give me those Eolian strains—
Those changeful notes
14
210 SONGS OF THE HEART
That richly rise — ^then die away,
As the wind floats ;
Let it be like the melody
Of gondoliers —
Now making the heart glad and then
Melting to tears.
Fbuitland, January, 1854.
To Jack.
(AOuiary bird.)
Oh I sing to me, birdie I sing one gentle strain,
For in thy bird-heart there is surely no pain ;
Then cease thy wild fluttering — fold thy wing.
And while I sit dreaming in idleness, sing.
There is tenderness in those dear notes of thine.
That strengthens the love -chords that round my
heart twine.
Oh I sing to me, darling I there's darkness and gloom
Settling o'er me like night in a lonely room ;
And as ocean- waves heave 'neath the pale cold light
Of the moon and stars in the stillness of night,
So my thoughts are all swelling beneath the beam
The spirit of sadness sheds over my dream.
Oh, sing to me, pet I for the window is briglit,
With rays of the morning's soft golden- winged light,
And I long for thy music to gladden my heart
Ere the sunshine and beauty of mom depart;
Already 'tis fading and paling away —
'Twill glide from one spot to another all day.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 211
Oh, sing to me, bright one ! there's no music here,
And no voice or step that in softness steals near ;
"Without, it is desolate, lonely, and cold —
The air is all chill, though the Jight is like gold ;
And within, there is nothing that's glad but thee.
And nothing that's half so lone-hearted as me.
Then sing, darling, sing to me while I am sad ;
Thy music is always so tenderly glad ;
It sinks not like mockery lightly to sleep.
But it comes like kind pity to hearts that weep.
And reminds me how childhood with loving fears,
WiU cling to a dear one to kiss away tears.
Fruitlaitd, January 7th, 1854.
Complaining.
OvEB the fountain in my heart
There is a dark cloud stealing.
And a spirit hand has strangely chilled
The warmest waves of feeling.
Upon this fountain of sweet song,
Light, now, is never shining —
Upon its brink no flowers grow —
No wreath for me is twining.
But close beside its waters deep
A willow-tree is bending.
And the darkness of its mournful shade
With the pale light is blending.
From the time the fountain broke its seal
The willow has been growing.
212 SONGS OF THE HEART.
And now the sun can no more slime
Where the cold waves are flowing.
One chord upon my poor frail harp
By a rude touch was broken,
And if now I sing the songs I love,
A part is left unspoken.
Each string beside the dear one lost
Wails out a strain of sadness,
And there is mourning in my heart
For its one note of gltCdness.
Alas ! the fountain must be sealed.
With shadows on it sleeping ;
And its waves must struggle up in drops
To fill my eyes with weeping.
The dust of time will gather there.
The seal forever hiding ;
And none may know there is a stream
Beneath it darkly gliding.
Oh ! what a heart will I have then —
What things within its keeping!
A broken harp on a drooping tree —
A fountain in it sleeping ;
A harp, whose lightest song will have
An undertone of sadness —
A fount whose waters never more
Can murmur out their gladness.
Fbuitlakd, Feb., 1854.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 213
The Heatt Eain.
Fbom the burdened clouds
Falls the heavy mn,
Beating with mournful sound
On the window-pane.
From my laden heart
That's heavy with fears,
Wells up from stormy deptlis
Vain and useless tears.
But the heavy rain
Now ceases to fall,
And a hush— a stillness,
Settles over all.
From my laden heart
Tears no longer rain.
And stillness settles there,
And quiet pain.
"The Bird Cage,** March, 1861.
Farewell to my Harp.
I TOUCH thy strings, my own dear harp,
To breathe a sad farewell —
To murmur out the darkened thoughts
That in my bosom dwell.
There is no music in my heart —
It fled like some sweet dream, .
214 SONGS OF THE HEART.
Or like a sunbeam glancing down
Upon a bidden stream.
I strive to call fortb one sweet strain ;
I toucb tbe trembling string ;
Alas ! there is no music there —
'Tis now a tuneless thing.
"Wild thoughts are rushing through my brain,
So strangely dark and sad,
I almost feel that ne^er again
My spirit can be glad.
I hate to see a sunny smile —
I dread its joyous gleam :
Oh I will I ever wake again
From this bewildering dream ?
Farewell 1 my harp, a long farewell I
We part forever now 1
Thy simple strains no more can chase
The shadows from my brow.
I linger o'er thy ruined chords.
And tears of vain regret
Unbidden from my eyelids start.
And make my lashes wet.
Why must we part, my faithful harp.
Why must thy tones be hushed ?
Why must the hope of my young life
Be now forever crushed ?
Oh I can I never wake again
Each low familiar tone ?
SONGS OF THE HEART. 216
Must every note now darkly die,
And leave my heart alone ?
Well, let the very echoes die,
The sound but gives me pain ;
Let me forget my broken harp
With this last, farewell strain.
St. Louis, Mo.
Watching.
The long day was waning,
And still it kept raining,
Dismally pouring down.
Alone, I sat watching
Dark figures approaching —
Soon in the darkness gone.
Every footstep nearing.
Every form appearing,
Awakened hope in vain ;
And slowly came stealing
Over every feeling,
Disappointment's deep pain.
My warm heart was chilling —
My sad eyes were filling
With tears, like coming rain ;
Yet — myself deceiving —
Still half-way believing,
I, lingering, looked again.
The children were sleeping —
I only was keeping
216 SONGS OP THE HEART.
Watch for the absent one ;
By flashes of lightning,
The dreary street brightening,
I saw men hurrying on.
But no feet were turning
To where I sat, yearning —
Yearning for him to come.
The dull hours were passing —
The wild winds were chasing
Wanderers, hastening home.
"Ah I why art thou staying?"
My heart began saying —
" Thou knowest I look for thee ?
The rain's mournful throbbing.
Its pitiful sobbing,
Talk to your heart of me."
The evening was waning —
My eyes ached with straining —
Straining to pierce the gloom ;
My sweet hope was dying,
And, silently sighing,
I slowly sought my room.
Reluctantly leaving.
Still fondly believing
It was not yet too late—
At the door delaying —
Then pensively saying,
" Tis vain to watch and wait"
April 22d, 1860.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 21*1
Kemembemng.
I'm sitting alone in the open door,
Eeraembering days that can come never more ;
The incessant noise in the busy street,
The whirl of carriages — the tread of feet,
Oomes, borne on the wing of the fitful breeze.
Blent strangely with its murmurings thro' the trees ;
But it all comes to one who heeds it not —
The past is present — the present forgot
This hour in the evening, five years agone,
I stood on a boat, and the sun smiled down
On the Mississippi, coming in pride
To meet the Missouri, his queenly bride.
And / was a bride, and was young in years,
Though old in the hours of pain and of tears.
My heart had been wounded, and I had pined
For the grave to hide me from friends unkind.
I had borne it long, — ^I had lived apart
From the one who had won my free young heart ;
I suffered, yet lived, after months, to come
Over lake and prairie, again to my home.
And then I renewed my promise to be
Bride of that one who was faithful to me.
Few, few were the words that bound us for life —
It seemed but a dream when he called me, wife.
But my heart beat fast with fears unexpressed,
And thrilled with a feeling of vague unrest;
I thought of the friends we had lost for aye.
Who rather than bless us would curse that day.
218 SONGS OP THE HEART.
I thought of his father's angry frown,
And I asked my heart where its pride had flown ;
I thought of his sister, coldly estranged,
I remembered his motiier, too, so changed,
And I sighed as I stood on the sonlit deck.
Thinking of hopes that were now but a wreek.
But thai time is past, and fiye changeful years.
Have scarce brought a joy unmingled with tears.
Even happiness seems a shroud to wear.
And pleasures, when grasped, seem no longer fiiir ;
The starry-eyed children I love so well.
Brought shadows with love in my heart to dwell,
For I think of their future life with dread.
Till in passionate hve^ I wish them dead,
Alas I it is hard to remember all
That has turned the sweetness of life to gall ;
To think how in childhood the shadow fell —
How the years of girlhood deepened the spell —
How it thickened around me when a bride —
How it stalks like a shadow at my side,
And over the fairest and loveliest thing
Of mine, it still folds its ebon wing.
I have sat here long in the open door.
Reviewing those days that can come no more.
The hour is past, and the sunlight gone,
And still I am sitting, alone, alone.
Fall round me, ye dusky pinions of night.
That sleep may steal over my weary sight.
Breathe round me, chill air of the even-tide,
Steal from me my thoughts of that pale, sad bride.
Jaly lOth. 1860.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 219
Last Night.
I STOOD at the upper window,
Alone in the lonesome hall,
And I watched the shadows gather,
And I saw night^s onrtain &U.
T looked through the falling rain-tears,
Far down to the dismal street —
1 heard the ceaseless pattering
Of the many stranger-feet.
My heart had throhbed expectantly —
It had thrilled the whole day long;
And Hope in its open door-way
Had carolled her happiest song.
But at night her sweet voice faltered :
She folded her wings, poor bird I
Instead of a joyous carol,
Low sobs were the sounds I heard.
But I locked within my bosom
The upheaving tide of tears,
And met, with a prayer for courage.
The ghosts of terrible fears.
I entered my silent chamber —
I languished the long, dark night;
Yet dreaded to see the morning.
And cursed the beautiful light.
so SONGS OF THE HEART.
But still it is sweetly shining,
Kissing the rmn from the street,
Paving with gold the long sidewalk,
'Neath the many stranger-feet
On a sonny street far distant
Walks the one for whom I wait ;
He knows not that Hope ceased sin^g
Last night in the open gate.
Bloombburg, April 14th, 1861.
My Blossom.
This sweet April morning
Once again returning,
Brings back the day,
"When on my faint bosom
A fragQe pink blossom
Half open lay.
A fair, human flower,
Born amid the shower
Of a heart's rain —
Entering existence
With feeble resistance
Against its pain.
Five Aprils, swift passing.
Thus rapidly chasing
The years away,
Have upraised my blossom
From the faint young bosom
Where first it lay.
t-.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 221
Each spring-time unfolds it.
Each new year heholds it
More fully blown ;
Yet also discloses
That fault of sweet roses —
Its thorns have grown.
Oh I prune it, our Father I
And tenderly gather
Away each thorn ;
And in the bruised places
Plant heavenly graces
My bud to adorn.
While within life's portal
Blooms this flower immortal,
Ca/re for each leaf;
And when angels find it,
Bid them safely bind it
In a good sheaf.
Then beside life's river
Oh I plant it forever,
No more to die ;
Or on Jesus' bosom
Place my cherished blossom
In peace to lie.
Bloomsbubo, April 2lBt, 1862.
SONOS OF THE HEABT.
Bo-Peep.
The shadows of night and the red firelight
Meet, and together creep
From the glowing grate, in the evening late,
In comers to play Bo-Peep.
In from the street patter little feet,
Soon to lie still in sleep,
And cunningly glide with the shadows to hide,
Ending the day with Bo-Peep.
The carpet's warm stains near the window panes,
All in a rainbow heap.
Blush under the lace thrown off the moon's face.
When with Earth she plays Bo-Peep.
Then the dreaming soul, in the crimson coal,
Builds splendid castles cheap.
To be overthrown by some burning stone
Suddenly playing Bo-Peep.
Hope's beautiful light— disappointment's night —
Meet, and together creep.
Checkering our fate both early and late.
Constantly playing Bo-Peep.
The spirit's sin-stains — the heart's after-pains —
All in a heavy heap.
Blush through the thin lace veiling each face,
In the world's great game, Bo-Peep.
Adown life's street wander many feet,
Soon in the grave to sleep,
SONGS OF THE HEART. 223
Yet by the wayside attempting to hide,
Thus playing with Death Bo- Peep.
But the weary soul that reaches the goal
Where the pilgrims stop to sleep,
Finds no corners wide wherein to hide,
For Death ends Life's game— Bo-Peep.
Grtep.
Oh, grief I oh, grief I
Oh, sad suspense and deep despair!
Where is relief
From burdens hard to bear ?
Storm-bended reed.
Sad soul ! thou art ;
Break, break, and bleed.
Poor stricken heart.
Oh, care I oh, care!
Oh, phantom, frightening rest away ;
Tis hard to bear —
But come ! your victim slay !
Yes, poisoned heart,
No balm can heal —
Then beat and smart.
Or cease to feel.
Oh, destiny !
Oh, cruel and relentless fate !
Where can I flee
That thou wilt not await ?
IVe wandered on
224 SONGS OF THE HEART.
A tear-stained way —
Soul-strength is gone —
Even strength to pray.
Oh I love, sweet love I
Thy loss now makes my soul sit dumb-
It cannot move !
Grief-fettered prisoner I it grows numb,
And scarce can ache —
Scarce feel its pain :
Ah I now it wakes —
It throbs again I
Oh, world I dark world I
Beneath heaven's star-gemmed banner blue.
By God unfurled,
Few eyes such tears look through
As now dim mine ;
I cannot see
Its glory shine —
God pity me !
March, 1862.
Spntrr-BiRD.
The name Spirit-bird,
Once a household word,
Kings now but in memory's hall ;
For exiled we roam
From the bluff-bound home
Where its echo was wont to fall.
And the wild free ways
Of my girlish days.
While the grief-fountain slept unstirred,
SONGS OF THE HEART. 225
Have departed all,
And beyond recall,
And with them the name, Spirit-bird,
Spirit-bird,
And with them the name, Spirit-bird.
I think of it now —
Its musical flow
From the lips of my early friend.
And remember yet.
That whene'er we met,
That name with his kisses would blend ;
No lover could frame
A love-prompted name
With any more beautiful word.
And fondly I hold
In my heart's safe fold
This link to the past — Spirit-bird,
Spirit-bird,
This link to the past. Spirit-bird.
Since romance is gone.
And we are now one.
Myself and the friend of those days,
The beautiful name.
Though ever the same,
He spuuks tmt iJi blame or in praise;
But li dearer one
From the aid name drawn.
For atfectioiiate use jirtforred,
Una taken Its j»laco
Witb an ea.sy grace, —
*TiB Birdie, and not Spirit-bird,
Spirit- bird,
'Tis Birdlti, and not Spbit-binl»
SONGS OP THE HEART.
BlRDEE.
Speak to me, call me Birdie —
Oh, let me hear to-night
The name given in love's baptism —
Name linked with lost delight
Say it in loving kindness,
Murmur it in my ear —
But speak it not to chide me
For one unbidden tear.
The lips that named me Birdie
Are silent now to me ;
Since they have learned the war-cry.
The watch-word of the free.
But it may be they whisper
Back to the soldier's heart
The name they loved to call me
Before we had to part.
Then speak, and call me Birdie,
It seems to bring him near ;
And when Ifeel his presence,
It frees my heart of fear :
It spans me with the rainbow
That Hope knows how to form.
By shining on my tear-rain,
And gilding my heart's storm.
Then speak, and call me Birdie,
It wins back lost delight —
My heart beats low to listen
To that pet name to-night.
SONGS OF THE HEART.
Poor heart I 'tis near forgetting
Its promise to be brave,
Because of inly yearning
To hear the name love gave.
Laurkl-stbket, Vinkland, October 3d, 1862.
A NoYEMBER Scene.
The sky is draped in sombre gray,
With here and there a silver ray;
But not a single thread of gold
Is chain-stltched on a cloudy fold —
Nor strip of azure softly braids
Its brighter coloring with the shades.
But folded in a dusky shroud
Lies every sun-embroidered cloud ;
And all the loveliness of day
Looks through a double veil of gray.
The winds among the boughs complain.
And leaves come down like quiet rain,
Falling with pensive, singing sound
On the brown earth and grassy mound ;
Shroudless and graveless there to lie.
Beneath a dreary, sunless sky.
Until November days have flown,
And weird winds shriek in wilder tone.
228 SONGS OF THE HEART.
And then will come a wintry night,
And the leaves will be laid out in white,
As though the angels had drawn near,
Casting on the uncovered bier
Their own robes beautifully fair —
Giving the dead a shroud to wear.
Oh, falling leaves ! I call ye blest —
Fair were your lives, and calm your rest.
In the sweet spring-time were ye born,
To breathe the fragrance of earth's morn.
Ye drank the honey dews of June—
Ye glistened 'neath the harvest moon;
Ye whispered with the winds all day,
And sung your summer lives away.
Ye danced like graceful fairies' feet
To his low love-tunes whistled sweet —
And then ye robed yourselves anew
In every gorgeous rainbow hue,
And flung back gold beams to the sud,
Blushing red for what ye had done.
And when the wind grew wild and mad,
And clouds were full of tears and sad.
Ye faded to a plainer brown,
And softly singing, fluttered down.
SONGS OF TH|: HEART. 229
The spring, the snmmer, and the fall
Ye saw, rejoicing in them all.
And now, ye all unconscious rest.
Low on the earth's green sodded breast,
Till winter's snow, and ice, and sleet
Give your remains a winding sheet.
Thus ye escape the darker days,
Dying in the November haze ;
Going, like all the early dead,
Away from woes the living dread.
LkwisburO; Pa.
Idle Houbs.
There's no enjoyment
In the employment
Of killing time ;
Such hours of leisure
Are without pleasure,
And dull life's prime.
It makes one weary —
It is so dreary
With naught to do ;
There's no refraining
From sad complaining
For something new.
In thoughts regretful
We grow forgetful
230 SONGS OF THE HEART.
Of Time's true worth ;
And we long for power,
Each leaden-winged hour
To kiU at birth.
If we were using,
And not abusing
Time's golden gift.
Each moment precious,
Short and delicious,
Would fly too swift
But moments wasted
Are joys untasted —
Joys cast away —
With the past hurried
Off to be buried—
Lost, lost for aye !
Then comes a season.
When, with sad reason.
For Time we pray ;
Making petition
For short addition
To life's spent day.
Then recollection,
And deep reflection.
Convict of crime ;
But no petition
In such condition
Can bring back Time I
Bloohsburg, Pa.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 231
The Passing o' the Simmer.
Ah ! lightsome simmer, passing fast,
. Wr singing birds and blossoms,
When a' your snnny hours are past,
How'U fare wanrest fu' bosoms ?
The last wild rose has bloomed and gane,
Round which the birds went humming
Garnered is a' the yellow grain,
And fa* ere long is coming.
Ah 1 perfumed simmer I passing swift
Owre lea, brae, haugh, and highland,
Ye weep ayont the changefu' lift,
To gild some tropic island ;
Ye tak frae every linn and howe
The freshness and the fairness.
And leave the bleak craft for the plough,
And a' the yird in bareness.
Ah, gleesome simmer I passing on
Ye heed na my cur murring,
Na mair than idle winds be drawn
To hear the partridge birring.
YeVe ripened mony a golden bing,
YeVe bearded a' the barley,
Ye've shed down dews upon the ling
And painted peach- cheeks rarely.
Ah, blythesome simmer I passing by.
Let the last hours gae hoolie —
Keep green the woods wi' emerald dye.
Crown a' the knowes wi* holly;
232 SONGS OP THE HEART.
Alakel ye wiona grant the prayer —
Ye may na keep earth bloomy ;
And we maun mak our mind to bear
Earth's looks when they be gloomy.
Hawthobmdkit, Aogost 14th, 1862.
Autumnal Musings.
Oh I for the autunms when
I used to wander with untrammelled will
Adown the cliff-walled glen.
Whistling soft answers to the wild-birds' trill,
Or sailing leaf-boats on the rippling rill,
Where no keen eye might ken
The work that kept me on the bank so still ;
A work I did not do sweet time to kill,
For time was light-winged then.
But then my warm heart kept an open door
To let small pleasures in,
And nothing Nature had seemed mean or poor
Whether in blossomy vale or bleaker moor,
But all to me were kin ;
All had a loveliness, my heart was sure.
Would to the autumn-time of life endure,
A joy unmixed with sin.
Still in the rainbow wood
My soul deliglits to cast away sad care —
To dream, until imbued
With the free fancies beautifully rare
That Nature woos a kindred mind to share :
SONGS OF THE HEART. 233
I go to be indued
Afresh with thoughts born but in autumn air ;
I go, amid its glorious decay
The litany it teaches me to say —
The prayer it mutely offers up to pray,
That I may tread life's hope-strewn way
With worldliness subdued.
But something now I lack ;
A nameless tint I ever used to see
That neutralized the black —
Invisible to some, but plain to me ;
This brighter dye, that glorified each tree,
Dims 'neath the cloudy rack
That spots so much more now the heavenly sea
Than in the autumn days that used to be.
When peace and hope and pleasantness, with me.
Walked in the leafy track.
Yines round the trees are tressed
The same as in the Illinoisan wood.
And virent mosses rest
Where otherwise the soil were dark and nude ;
Between the stops of stillness, that do brood
As if earth held her breath, an interlude
Of airy tunes breaks up the quietude
That almost had oppressed.
All outwardly the same ;
But now my soul looks through a cloudy veil
Upon the woods a-flame ; *
The russet, gold, and purple seem to fade, —
The brilliant orange wears a duskier shade.
Than in the wild frescades where once I played ;
234 SONGS OP THE HEART.
Yet not to Nature are these changes laid —
Myself must hear the hlame.
World ! open now anew
Life's sylvan vista to my unveiled view ;
Open my blinded eyes,
And grant to them once more the rich surprise
Of old-time pictures in each pristine hue —
Flame-color, tyrian-tint, gold, brown, and blue,
Painting the earth and skies.
Ah me I for worse than naught
Have I bowed low beneath griefs chastening rod,
If I, in faith, ask aught
Like this of earth, instead of asking God ;
'Twould be untreading all the path I've trod,
Reburying hopes that died upon the road.
Revisiting each grave's low sunken sod.
Oh, world I henceforth my spirit shall be taught
By One too lately known, too long unsought ;
rU stray no more abroad.
Sinking beneath my load.
Since He my freedom from the world has bought.
October 23d, 1862.
In the Dabk.
It is dreadful, so dreadful to be in the dark.
When my heart and I are left sadly alone ;
With my heart, a cage empty — I, trying to hark
For some note from the lost bird of hope that has
flown.
SONGS OP THE HEART. 235
It is pitiful, pitiful, left in the dark
All alone, this poor desolate heart and I,
Expecting a day-dawn, when hope, like a lark,
Will be singing far off from my life's cloudy sky.
It is terrible, terrible, here in the dark;
The gray wings of morning seem folded far off;
In God's book of the sky there's no star for a mark —
(One text from its pages might comfort enough.)
Yet 'tis pleasant, so pleasant to feel in the dark
A strong hand compassionate clasping my own ;
A hand in whose palm there is printed a mark
That will lead me up safe to my bird that has
flown.
Cushion Mountain, Angtut 6th, 1864.
Chiming Bells.
[Written while the vesper bells were chiming, in St Loals, on
the evening of Ember-day, December 16th, 1850.]
How sweet to hear that solemn chime
Filling with music all the air.
As if it came from heaven's clime,
Calling away to worship there I
Sweetly it falls upon the ear.
As first it breaks the stillness round :
I pause — I gently turn to hear
The music in the deep-toned sound.
Long after it has died away
Upon the clear cold air of night.
236 SONOS OF THE HEART.
And stars unite their silvery rays
With Luna's beams of mellow light —
The last faint echo of each chime
^ Comes like the memory of a dream,
In wandering thoughts at even-tide,
When things unreal, real seem.
"I HAYE BEEN WHERE JeSUS WAS."
** Should it rend some fond connecUon,
Should I suffer shame or loss,
Yet the ft-Agrant^ blest reflection,
I have been where Jesus was,
Will revive me
When I faint beneath the cross.**
The world may laugh to hear me speak
The Saviour's lovely name,
And say it was excitement's touch
That kindled up the iiame —
And that the hour will come again,
When, in my wayward heart,
His name will wake no thought of love-
His image bear no part.
They may believe I made these vows
In an unthinking hour,
And say my Father will not guide
My spirit by His power ;
That He will never give me strength
My promises to keep.
But unsupported, leave me yet
In misery to weep.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 237
But when they speak these saddening words,
And I begin to feel
That over His love-lighted face
Shadows may sometimes steal —
I'll call to mind the solemn night
When tremblingly I trod
The path I knew was hallowed once
By Christ, the Son of God.
How calmly flowed around me then
The pure and peaceful wave,
When low my youthful form was laid
Within the liquid grave !
'Twas then I hoped — was it in vain? —
That every thought of mine
Should breathe this prayer, " Oh ! let me have
No will, O God, but thine."
Yes, I have been where Jesus was,
'Neath the baptismal wave I
Fve felt the pure life giving thrill
Of happiness it gave.
My Saviour stood before the throne
When those baptismal words
Ascended to that glorious home,
By saints and angels heard.
I seemed to feel His mighty arm
In love around me thrown,
And seemed to hear a voice proclaim,
" Henceforth thou art My own."
His own I what had I then to fear.
In that dear hour of bliss,
When Jesus made my spirit strong.
And whispered I was His ?
238 SONGS OF THE HEABT.
Hj Savionr, when assailing donbts
Agdnst m J faint heart come,
Let me but hear " a still small voice"
Speak from the heavenly home ;
And every stormy, tronbl^ wave
Will then be lolled to rest.
And I shall seem agtun to lie
In safety on Thy breast.
St. Louis. 18S3.
Morning Prayer in School.
Lightly the tread of girlish feet
Along the hall is heard,
And glances bright and happy tones
Mfi^e musical each word.
But soon a pleasant shade of thought
Steals over every face.
And gay, and arch, and smiling looks
To graver ones give place.
For when the Bible is unclasped,
The morning lesson given,
Into the thoughtless hearts come then
Remembrances of heaven.
We ahnost feel that angel-breath
Has purified the air.
And laden it with balm to steal
Our childish grief and care.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 239
Few troubles yet have crossed our hearts,
Few tears have dimmed our sight —
Still fresh upon each rosy lip
Sit smiles of sweet delight
The full cup is untasted yet —
The cup of this world's woe —
And we have known no grief so deep
That tears refuse to flow.
We do not know enough of care,
While life's spring flowers still bloom,
To teach our hearts how great their need
To seek a heavenly home.
Bright girlhood soon must pass away —
These happy days will seem,
When memory sometimes brings them back,
Only a summer dream.
Ah I dark will be those after years,
Without firm faith in God,
To lead us in the darkest hour
To kiss the chastening rod.
Then ere we mingle in the world.
And feel our hearts grow old,
Oh I let us find the narrow road
That leads to Jesus' fold.
Then strong temptation will not find
Our souls without a shield,
And firm will be the voice within
Urging us not to yield.
St. Louu, 1853.
240 SONGS OF THE HEART.
To Emily.
We were in £/s room. I was walking up and down the room,
thinking. It was a habit The gay conversation was ended
among the girls by an abrupt exclamation —
** Anna, did Jesos do that way ? You wish to follow His ex-
ample—is that like Him ?"*
I stopped in surprise.
** Forgive me,'' cried the thoughtless girl, **and write something
for me to make me remember, and I will never speak so again.''
This was the reply: —
Dbar Emily, your careless words
With pain have touched my heart,
For they reveal how fer your path
From Jesus lies apart
He did, indeed, life's pathway tread
With weary, dusty feet :
The purpose of his pilgrimage
Should make its memory sweet.
He came to mark a heavenward track
For wandering human feet,
Who lose their way in mazes dark
Down life's hewildering street
And as he walked, he turned to heal
The lowliest in distress :
Oh ! who could fail to follow him.
And in his footsteps press ?
Would you not feel for such a friend
A love intense and deep ?
Would a command laid down by him
Seem difficult to keep ?
I
SONGS OF THE HEART. 241
Oh I Emily, this Jesus does
As much for me — for you —
Yet you disdain to ask in turn,
" What wilt thou have me do ?"
For you he trod the paths of earth,
Heedful of suffering's cry ;
His feet ascended Calvary
That you might never die I
This, this is why my heart is pained —
Oh I pain it not again.
But come I clasp hands and walk with me
The path Christ made us then !
. Louis, 1853.
On the Kuins op Dr. Bullard's Church.
The merry sunshine of the spring
Its gay and mocking smiles
Upon the fallen ruin flings,
And dances down the aisles.
Through windows richly carved and stained
The light once struggled in,
But freedom it has now obtained
To flood the chapel dim.
On that once consecrated spot
Many a solemn scene
Has passed that may not be forgot,
Though long years intervene.
16
242 SONGS OF THE HEART.
How many in their early youth
There told, in faltering tones,
Their feith in Grod's eternal truth,
Their hope to be his own I
How oft has been recounted there
The strange, affecting tale,
How Jesus died in grief and care^
How rent the temple's veil I
But all is passed; they go elsewhere ;
And the old ruin lies
Exposed alike to day's broad glare,
Or tears from cloudy skies.
The well-known hymns in solemn notes
The last time have been sung,
And there, henceforth, no music floats
From any human tongue.
Farewell, thou fallen church, farewell I
And in the choir above
May all those voices richly swell
In songs of Jesus' love.
St. Louis, 1863.
Singing in Heaten.
[To a te%^ber wbo said, th^se who could not sing apon earth mast
be also silent In heaven.]
Oh 1 can it be that there are saints
Among the choir above,
Whose voices join not in the song
Of Christ's redeeming love I
S0K6S OF THE HEART. 243
How can they hear the heavenly strwns
Sweetly around them float,
And feel the music in their hearts,
And yet not sing a note ?
How can they see the angel band
Strike every golden lyre,
Withoat enkindling in their souls
The same ecstatic fire ?
How can they stand amid the throng
With sweet-toned harps of gold,
Nor wake a strain to praise the Lamb
Who brought them to his fold ?
Oh, no ! the voice that never sung
On earth a note of praise.
Will join the happy choir above,
And sing their sweetest lays.
St. Louis, 1868.
I AM TROUBLED.
Psalm zxx. 6.
I AM troubled, sorely troubled,
And my soul can find no rest —
Tossed by tempest, I am going
Down the stream of life, unblest. •
Darkest thoughts my bosom fill —
No voice whispers, " Peace, be still."
I am troubled, deeply troubled,
I go mourniug all the day ;
244 SONGS OP THE HEART.
I look up — the sky is clouded —
I can see no glad sun-ray.
Smiles of light I ah I there are none
For a poor, unpardoned one !
I am troubled, sadly troubled —
My sick soul is siuking down,
And my strength of heart is failing
Fast beneath God's angry frown.
Faith and courage have I none —
I am wretched and undone.
I am troubled, I am troubled —
This is my unchanging theme,
And it seems to come forever
In the place of prayer and hymn-
Waking me at early dawn,
Mocking me when day is gone.
I am troubled, ever troubled ;
Even when I try to pray.
Something to my spirit whispers
That the Lord is far away —
Filling me with dreadful fear
That my prayer he will not hear.
I am troubled, greatly troubled,
Sore discouraged and oppressed ;
If the Lord will not accept me,
Whither shall I go for rest?
If He will not hear my prayer,
Who will hear me — who else care?
SONGS OF THE HEART. 245
I am troubled, I am troubled —
I am groping like one blind,
For the blessed light is hidden
From my dark, bewildered mind.
Oh I that I could come aright
Out of darkness into light I
LxwiSBUBG, Fa., Feb., 1800.
A Prayer.
Fatiieb in Heaven,
Pity thy child 1
Look in compassion,
Tender and mild.
My bark is driven
Far out at sea —
There is no beacon
Shining for me.
If it is shining
/ see no light —
Angry waves heaving
Shut out the sight
Is there no haven
Where I may lie
Till the fierce tempest
Passes me by?
Oh ! Saviour, forgive I
Hear me, I pray —
246 SONGS OF THE HEART.
Pardon! oh, pardon I
Turn not away.
Come in the tempest,
Come to me now —
Give for my beacon
Light on thy brow !
Make my bark steady —
Calm down the sea —
Tell me thou lovest
Me, even me.
Give me true courage^
Give jne pure joy
That earthly sorrow
Cannot destroy.
Give the assurance
That thou wilt save —
Let me not perish
Under death's wave.
Febnutry, I860.
I KNOW NOT HOW TO DIE.
[Soggested by the *< Fatal Mistake,"* published in the Now Yotk
Ledgsr.}
I KNOW not how to die, mother,
I know not how to die ;
The way seems very dark, mother,
The light fades from the sky.
I am very fearful, mother,
SONGS OF THE HEART. 241
I dread to leave you so —
Oil I take my hand in yours, mother,
You must not let me go.
I know not how to die, mother,
I know not how to die :
You never talked of death, mother ;
Why did you not — oh ! why ?
You never taught me this, mother.
And I had felt no fear
That death would come to me, mother,
This glad and happy year.
1 know not how to die, mother,
I know not how to die ;
And there's no time to learn, mother,
For death is drawing nigh.
I cannot now prepare, mother,
You never told me aught
Of the robe I must wear, mother —
Oh, why was I not taught?
I know not how to die, mother,
I know not how to die ;
You've talked of the future, mother,
But not of eternity.
You have loved me, dearest mother,
From the hour of my birth.
But it cannot save me, mother —
It was the love of earth.
I know not how to die, mother,
I know not how to die ;
You did not teach me this, mother:
Speak to me — ^tell me why?
248 SONGS OF THE HEART.
Ton told me of the worid, mother,
Of happiness and love,
Bnt never of Jesns, mother,
Or of a home above.
I know not how to die, mother,
I know not how to die ;
Yon saw not the danger, mother.
Ton knew not death was nigh.
Yon did not pray for me, mother.
You did not say repent.
And now into my heart, mother.
Death's arrow has been sent.
I know not how to die, mother,
I know not how to die ;
The way is dark and drear, mother.
The light fades from the sky ;
Tes, it is fading fast, mother,
The cheerftd sunlight here,
And I am growing cold, mother,
Dying in dread and fear.
I know not how to die, mother,
I know not how to die ;
But I am sinking down, mother.
Deep shadows round me lie :
Oh, I am dying now, mother.
Dying in such dark dread —
Mournfully going down, mother,
Among the early dead.
LxwiSBUEO, 1860.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 249
Waye-worn.
A SPUING wells up beneath a hill,
And from it flows a silverj rill,
Where years ago I used to float
Upon its breast my mimic boat.
It then was but a shining belt
On which the sunshine seemed to melt;
A pearly ribbon, sweetly laid
In graceful folds upon the glade.
But years have passed, and day by day
The waves have worn the banks away.
And mingled with their azure tide
The sod they washed from either side.
They've worn away tjie grassy seat —
They lave the path wherein ray feet
Left their small print at close of day.
Pressed in soft moss, or sunk in clay.
"Wee wavelets they, and small the rill —
A silver knife tliat cut the hill :
Yet they have slowly, one by one.
Fretted and worn the very stone.
250 SONGS OF THE HEART.
And thus the waves of many ills
Flow round the soul from life's dark rills —
And thus, since ever thought was horn,
By waves of woe 'twas tossed and worn.
And though, unto the human eye.
Life's river rolls serenely hy.
There is an under-current deep —
Forever troubled — ^ne'er asleep.
These barks can stem the storm awhile.
That beat against them every mile ;
But their soul-freight will chafe and fret,
Impatient till life's sun is set, —
Until, wave-stained, wave-rocked and worn,
They near their " dark mysterious bourne,"
And from all earthly fetters free
Launch into wide eternity.
How dark the fate of such a soul.
If; when it reaches death's black goal,
It launches in the troubled tide.
Without the Christian's heaven-sent guide —
On, on, to drift, wave-rocked and tossed,
V Wrecked in the gulf of woe, and hit I
^^isBUEO, December, 1860.
\
SONGS OF THE HEART. 251
Saved.
A WANDEBING soTil WES out at sea —
Breakers were surging fearfully.
And winds were wailing loud.
Frail was the bark, and rent the s£dl,
As, driven before the furious gale,
Its foamy furrows ploughed.
'Twas night, and all the sky was black —
No beacon beamed upon the track-
No rift was in the cloud.
Adrift on the unfathomed deep.
Each onward surge a fatal leap —
To death the doomed soul bowed.
The salt brine laved the helpless feet —
The death-struck heart but feebly beat —
Foam wove the wanderer's shroud.
Then out upon the surgy sea,
A life-boat launched forth fearlessly,
And on the mad waves rode.
Upon the wide waste, but a speck.
Trembled the shattered human yrreck,
Alive, within a shroud.
The lost one heard the dipping oar.
And shrieked, till echoes from the shore
Back bounded to him, loud.
252 SONGS OP THE HEAET.
A cheering voice, then at his side,
To the wild wail for help, replied,
'* Oome in my boat with me."
The castaway, in doubt and fear.
Cried onfc, " Thy boat I it is not near I
I cannot go with thee."
The tempest wailed a wilder dirge —
The bark was sinking in the surge —
Still urged the voice to flee I
" Take me ashore in my own boat —
'Tis strong enough, thus far, to float —
And yours, I cannot see.
"I fear to take so mad a leap,
Over the dark and treacherous deep —
'Twould sink me in the sea."
Thus in the sinking boat he stayed,
And his salvation long delayed.
Though it was offered free.
But on eternity's dark brink.
He saw, at last, that he must sink.
Or in the life-boat flee.
Then the poor self-abandoned waif
Gave himself up, and went home safe,
Saviour of souls, with Th^ !
WuxiAMSPOBT, September, 1861.
SONGS OP THE HEART. 263
The Prison Daisy.
(** Oar matron was once looking through the inspection hole of a
cell, and perceived the inmate with her elbows on the table, gazing
on a daisy. The wistful look of that woman at her prize was a
gleam of as true sentiment as ever breathed in a poet*s line&
*' The woman wept at last, dropping her head on the table be-
tween her hands, and shed her bitter tears silently. • • Six
months after, I saw that flower pressed between the leaves of het
Bible.'*— z&tt Ev. Post, Dec, 1862. Art., •* Female Life in Prison.")
The convict sat with folded hands,
Her dark eyes dim and hazy,
For through the Millhank prison bands
Had come to her a daisy.
With wistful gaze she bent above
The flower of all most common,
But which possessed a charm to move
The heart of fallen woman.
Kuined, repulsive, coarse, and rude,
What change the flower effected!
The " old time," in the tender mood.
Was freshly recollected.
It mutely told of happier times —
Of innocence — of childhood —
Back, back, beyond the bridge of crime.
Youth's green and flowery wildwood.
It spoke of fields she used to cross,
Where daisy eyes were glistening —
A mother's grave, where, mid the moss,
Her prayers they lay a-listening.
264 SONGS OF THE HEART.
Poor erring one I the tangled wild
Her feet had long been threading
Led through a labyrinth defiled,
That there seemed no nntreading.
But gazing on the prison flower,
Her sinless years recalling,
The crime-stained heart in that strange boar
Christ's love was disenthralling.
God's Spirit took the lowly gnise —
Gk)d's eye looked through the blossom —
Taking his lost child by surprise
Back to his pitying bosom.
Months after, in her Bible pressed,
The faded flower-angel
Was still the Millbank prison guest,
The teacher, the evangeL
ViKKLAiTD, N. J., Dec., 1862.
Laus Deo.
The wide world is the temple of the Lord,
And Nature's voices constitute its choir ;
Birds, brooks, and breezes, with a sweet accord.
Echo the hymnings of the heaven-tuned lyre.
They call to matins at the early dawn —
To vespers at the sinking of the sun.
And human hearts, though worldly, yet are drawn.
To yield faint praise to Him, the Holy One.
SONGS OF THE HEART. 255
They, the sweet soulless singers, do outdo
Man, who in God's own image God did form.
And though no part immortal, their praise true
Like incense rises from earth's altar, warm.
Soul-gifted man ! akin to the divine —
Earth's king, and sceptered with a cunning arm,
Yet his least subjects to give praise incline,
While he, the God-like, grovels like a worm.
Angnst, 1862.
My Name.
If the cloudless clime of heaven
Ever is my happy home,
May the waiting band of angels
Speak my own name when I come.
May no other name be given
Than the one 1 bear on earth.
Dear to me because my mother
Gave it to me at my birth.
True, it sometimes has been spoken
In the tones of angry hate.
But that will be all forgiven
When I reach the pearly gate.
Kaught in that world is remembered
That can mar our perfect bliss.
And I love to think they'll greet me
By the name I knew in this.
Name repeated by young brothers,
First among the household words,
256 SONGS OF THE HEART.
When they fluttered in the home-nest
Like a brood of sin^ng birds.
Name engraven on the tablets
Of a loving husband's heart —
Oh ! then must I hear it never
When from earth I shall depart ?
Name endeared to me forever,
Kendered musical by love —
Whispered softly by the dying,
As they passed to realms above —
Lingering on their lips half uttered,
When the seal of death was set,
Giving it a sacred meaning
That my soul may not forget.
At the final resurrection,
When I take again this frame,
It will then be made immortal,-^
So might be rny earthly name ;
Purified from spot or blemish.
Freed from all of sin and shame,
Rendered beautiful and holy —
Greatly changed, yet still the same.
Lkwisbueg, Pa.
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
DEDIOATBO
TO ALICE AND LILLIAN,
FOR WHOM THBT WKBB ORIOINILLT WBITTBN.
Dearie.
Comb sit beside me, dearie,
The pleasant morning light
Is changing into diamonds
The crystal tears of night ;
The roses are unfolding,
"With many blushes bright —
Happy birds are carolling
Their songs of wild delight.
Then sit beside me, dearie.
And the fresh morning air
Shall gently kiss your forehead,
And wave your nut-brown hair;
And sunbeams clear and golden
Shall form a circlet fair.
Brighter than the coronets
That queenly heads oft wear.
17
258 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
Then sit beside me, dearie,
And listen to me yet.
And calm your restless spirit,
My wayward little pet ;
The beauty of the morning
Has made my heart forget
Sorrows that, in the darkness,
Make my eyes dim and wet.
Then sit beside me, dearie,
A little longer stay —
Know you, my child, how lonely
I feel when you're away ?
Think you the light so golden
% Would seem to me so gay,
If you were not beside me,
My little Allie May?
Sit close beside me, dearie.
And lay within my own
That hand the sun's been kissing
Until it is so brown.
Ah, now you have unclasped it,
And you are slipping down —
Out in the dew and sunshine
My Allie May is gone !
June 16th, 1860.
The Little Red Shoe.
Teae-blinded, faint-hearted.
In sorrow we parted.
At set of sun.
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 269
The long day had wasted,
And our worn feet hasted
Ere night begun.
Then mother sat weeping,
While shadows were creeping
Into the room ;
Oppressed with her sorrow —
Believing no morrow
Could chase the gloom.
Sweet home of the valley !
Birth-place of our Allie —
She was its light.
So when they had given ,
The last kiss that even.
Fast fell the night.
The little dress spotted,
And all over dotted
Crimson and gold,
Was tenderly taken,
And lovingly shaken
Smooth in each fold.
A shoe, lost in straying
Too far, in her playing,
Out doors had lain.
Till the autumn weather
On its crimson leather
Left mould and stain.
Though rain had defaced it,
Her boy-uncle placed it
Over his heart ;
260 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
Her wee foot had worn it —
Her own foot had torn it —
They conld not part
Then far from the valley,
First home of onr AUie,
Wandered they all;
In sorrow departing,
Reluctantly starting,
Late in the fall.
Long after we sought them^
Their child-love we brought them,
Though not alone.
The heart of our mother
Received yet another
Beautiful one —
Whose smile was as winning,
And heart free from sinning,
And face as fair ;
So love first withholden.
Like light warm and golden,
Beamed on her there.
Beloved little spirit I
She came to inherit
Every thing there ;
The dress crimson spotted,
The dress golden dotted,
Oame into wear.
E'en the shoe long cherished,
Stained, worn, and half perished.
Kept with fond care,
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 261
To our Lily was given,
When a summer even
One foot was bare.
Red shoe and white stocking
(After hoars of looking)
Never were traced) —
So the tiny treasure,
Sweet source of past pleasure,
The last, replaced.
December SOth, 1860.
AlTiTE AXD Ln.T.TE.
My AUie, my fairy, fashioned so slight.
Gracefully, airily stepping so light.
Springing and dancing from morning till night.
Gone I while you think she is still in your sight.
My Lillie, my baby, so plump and fair,
With silky tresses of sunny brown hair.
And dazzling glimpses of white shoulders bare,
Rising above every dress she can wear.
My AUie, my gipsy, with curls of brown,
Ooquettbhly dancing and rippling down,
Shading her forehead, or hiding a frown.
Then floating far back, by the wild wind blown.
Lillie, my sunbeam, the ever bright ray
That lights up for me the gloomiest day,
Gliding around in sweet frolic and play,
Beautiful, innocent, loving, and gay.
262 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
"My AUie, my birdling, floating about,
At my side nestling, agdn to fly out,
Lingering to chirp of some queer little thought,
Then flying away with a song and a shout
My lillie, my pet, so winning and sweet.
Unevenly stepping, loved ones to meet.
Though they have only been out in the street —
Eagerly stepping, dear, dear little feet
My heart tells me oft I cannot decide
Which I love best, or regard with most pride:
The elf from my kisses trying to hide,
Or the sunbeam thaf s shining at my side.
Grandfather's Darung.
[Suggested hj a piotare.]
Gbakdfathbb's darling!
Grandfather's pride!
Ah! little smiler,
Dimples can't hide I
This morning's sunshine
Your face reflects, —
Been in some mischief,
Grandpa suspects.
Very demurely
Those fingers fold.
But /know, darling.
Tour ways of old.
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 263
What are yon telling?
Been ont at play,
Pulling red roses
To throw away ?
Ah I little darling,
I saw you go —
Grandpa was watching,
Didn't you know?
"What are you hiding
There in your dress?
Tore it a little,
Can't yoU' confess?
Now what will mother
Say to my pet?
Shall grandpa ask her
Please to forget ?
Say, little darling,
What can we do—
Don't my pretty one
Wish she could sew ?
There 1 mother's calling,
Bahy is up ;
See ! she is drinking
Out of your cup!
Breakfast is ready ;
Come, we must go.
And this misfortune
Mother must know.
Kow the locks golden
Half out of hraid,
Grandfather's fingers
Smoother have laid ;
264 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
And the white apron
Hides the torn dress —
Where the sad rent is,
Mother can't gness.
Lbwisbubo, Jannargr 3d, 1861.
He's Coming.
[Sngi^ted by an eDgraving, representing a young mother sitting
on a rude seat beside her cottage door, with her babe asleep, itii
head resting on her lap, and its bare feet upon the bench. The
young wife awaits the coming of her husband.]
Sleep I haby, sleep I
Best those dimpled fairy feet
On tjie bare, brown, rastic seat,
"While the weary little head
Showers its silken golden thread
On a softer, warmer bed —
Sleep I baby, sleep I
Rest I baby, rest I
'Us my prettiest muslin dress
That your peachy cheek doth press,
But those precious rings of gold —
Moist with night-dews half unrolled —
Hiding in each airy fold —
Cannot fade its azure hue :
Close then, pet, those eyes of blue.
Sleep I baby, sleep!
Sleep I baby, sleep 1
While I silent sit and look
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 265
Far across the moonlit brook —
O'er the meadows — up the hill —
On the pathway to the mill,
Close beside yon rippling rill —
Sleep I baby, sleep !
Rest I baby, rest I
Eyes so bright must not grow dim,
I must watch alone for him ;
'Tis not yet your weary fate
Thus at even-tide to wait,
Like a lone dove for its mate.
Sleep I then, precious darling, sleep I
While my lonesome watch I keep.
Sleep I sweetly sleep I
Wake I baby, wake I
You must share my brighter fate I
He is almost at the gate I
Baise that pretty gold-crowned head
From its low uncurtained bed.
Listen to the well-known tread !
Wake ! baby, wake !
Wake ! baby, wake !
Let the silken fringes rise
That now veil those starry eyes ;
I would have their tender light,
Ever radiant, ever bright,
On your father shine to-night.
He is coming — drawing near —
Coming I coming ! almost here I
Wakel baby, wake!
Lbwisbdbo, Jan. 4th, 1861.
266 LEAVES FOB THE LITTLE ONES.
BomsiE Winnie.
Bomn wee Winnie I
Light o' the hame !
Wi' love'a kindKn' fire
My hearths a-flame.
SoDsie wee Winnie I
Cantie and gay !
Blinkin^ sae bonnie —
Standing abeigh.
Bonnie wee Winnie !
Giensagiftl
Smile like a snn-ray
Frae the bine lift!
Charming wee Winnie I
Wr een sae bine I
Nae flower o' simmer
Compares wi' yon I
Bonnie wee Winnie I
Jewel o' mine 1
Aft my heart's osie
Lest thee I tine I
Febrnsry, 10th, 1861.
LEAVES FOB THE LITTLE ONES. 26*7
To Anna Margabet.
Though I may not meet thee,
Witii kisses to greet thee,
Fair little one I
This welcome I send thee,
With love to attend thee.
Till life is done.
Anna Margaret^ they name thee,
But / dare not claim thee,
Namesake of mine —
For I'll not deceive thee —
Naught have I to give thee —
Naoght, save this rhyme.
Still, though I have told thee
I may not behold thee
Now at life's dawn,
I neither forget thee.
Nor those who will pet thee
When I am gone.
May Heaven watch o'er thee —
May the way before thee,
With flowers be strewn ;
But if sharp thorns tear thee,
May it be but to bear thee
Near to God's throne.
Whatever shall betide thee —
Whate'er is denied thee.
Or kindly given.
268 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
May it all, all gaide thee,
When God shall have tried thee,
At last — ^to heaven.
Lbwisbvro, March 81st, 1861.
AcRosno.
Allie is a sweet sun-ray.
Lighting np each clondy day :
Is there, can there be a fay
Caught by mortals in life's way,
Even half as winning — say ?
Smiles of sunrise in the May
Prettier could not be, than play
All about her face so gay,
Up to where her lashes lay.
Like the shadows soft and gray
Daylight chases fast away.
Is there any child, I say.
Near as sweet as Alice May,
Graceful as a wild- wood fay ?
Leaf from a Lhtle Life.
SouTH-wESTWABD, in a wild, bluflF-guarded vale,
Whore the broad Mississippi grandly glides,
A cabin, built upon the hunter's tridl,
Long since deserted, in seclusion hides.
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 269
The winding bugle once made glad those hills ;
The hnnted deer
With fleet hound crossed the little singing rills
With her pursuers near.
And other little feet
Light as the pretty fawn^s, and scarce less fleet,
Made tracks in the long grass, and in the clay.
By the blue run
Where pearly pebbles lay,
Gleaming, through all the beautiful calm day.
In the warm glances of the ardent sun.
There loved the fawn-like little feet to stray.
Sometimes beyond the range of mother-eyes.
To see the wavelets tremble, as with fright,
When the poor panting doe, in her wild flight.
Crazed with the hunter's cries,
Plunged through to seek for safety, far away.
Within the cabin, with a weary tread,
A gentle woman used to walk and spin :
Sad lines of care.
Half hid in curling hair.
Marked her sweet features, faded, worn, and thin.
Meantime her busy heart spun different thread ;
And she would smile, a dreary smile that said
Heart-woven skeins were tangled in a knot
That it had been her heaven-appointed lot
To strive, in daily tasks, to lay out straight.
Ah I weary, hopeless fate,
* When it seems toil in vain.
And we must walk, with slow and fainting tread,
A never-turning lane.
2*10 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
But into her dark shadowy life God wove
A golden chain ;
And spnn for her a rainbow-tinted skein,
Wherewith she might make many a sunny line,
'Mid darker lines to shine ;
God gave her this, and surely God is love.
Uer gentle child, a fairy little girl,
With earnest eyes, mild and serenely bine.
And fair cheeks tinted with a sea-shell hue.
Set in a shining frame of golden curls,
Became her world's undimraed, unsetting sun.
The light by which her homeliest tasks were done.
And with increasing beauty, day by day.
The sweet child drew her mother's thoughts away,
Until her spell-bound heart forgot, well-nigh.
That earth holds for us each a sunless grave,
And that, beyond death^s dark and troubled wave,
A radiant, God -lighted land doth lie.
But many a thought
With deepest meaning fraught,
Dropped from the fair child's rose leaf lips, like
pearls.
And round her baby-brow
Circled a halo like the sunrise glow,
A crown of glory, made of golden curls.
The mysteries of our faith she pondered on,
And in the cool blue run,
With reverent air, her kitten was baptized.
While she bestowed a blessing and a name.
Henceforth she loved it, as a human heart —
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 211
Taught it tlie pretty lessons that she knew,
Gave it of every gift an equal part,
And almost breathed a soul its being through.
But one calm golden day
The starry eyes dimmed in the dazzling sun ;
The little teacher's self-set tasks were done—
The gentle lips had dropped their last pure pearls,
And turned to common clay.
Crowned only with its beautiful pale curls.
The mother's idol in Death's shadow lay.
Then lifted she her eyes.
To look again beyond earth's changing skies
To where the Banner of Love-light unfurls.
A little grave was made.
And the dumb favorite forsook the hearth,
And patient watched beside the mound of earth
Till months had lengthened into two lone years,
And blue-eyed flowers tad grown up in the tears
The mourning mother shed,
Together with fair golden cups, that crowned
With a pale of glory all the darker ground
Above the sleeper's head.
The setting sun
That marked the two years done,
Saw loving hands take up the coffined child,
And in a new and far-off place of rest
Cross the white hands once more upon its breast,
And thus, with hymn unsung and prayer unsaid,
Give back again to earth the gentle dead.
212 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
Back in the valley wild,
Stars pitiful and mild
Looked into the reopened grave, and shone
On a dumb mourner lying there alone —
Dying of grief that no expression found ;
And when the morning light the valley filled
The heart that seemed so human, Death had stilled,
And the loved grave was made its burial-mound.
WiLUAMBPOBT, Pa., Dec 11th, 186L
Hetty Mabvyn;
OB, THE GOVBBNOR's ESCAPE.
The narrow path from the orchard
Stopped at the side of the road,
After crossing o'er the meadow.
And the brook that through it flowed.
And the forty yards of linen
That across the plat did reach.
Was beginning in the sunshine.
And the dew of May,- to bleach.
By it sat the farm-chOd, Hetty,
Near the road, and near the brook —
In her hand a gourd-shell dipper —
In her lap an open book.
Now, up in the farm-house attic
Hid the Governor of the State —
A price had been set upon him.
And the Tories lay in wait
\
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES, 213
That day he had been discovered,
And hunted by Tory spies,
Who gloried to help the English
Capture a patriot prize.
Hurrying across the meadow
To Hetty, he quickly said,
** My child, for life I am flying —
There's a price set on my head ;
" And if I am overtaken
Before I reach my canoe,
I am lost and ruined, Hetty ;
There is nothing I can do.
" You see here the road forks, Hetty,
And I want to run this way.
But you must say to the rascals
"Who are chasing me to-day,
** That I've gone to catch the wagon
That is coming with the mail,
And then I shall reach the river
Ere they discover my trail."
But in sad distress cried Hetty,
"Oh I I cannot tell a lie!
And I wish you had not told me
* Which way you intend to fly."
" Hetty darling, you would surely
Not to death a friend betray? —
Hark! they come I I hear their horses —
Say Fve gone the other way I"
IS
2*14 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
" Heaven never blesses falsehood,
And I dare not speak a lie I
But I will not tell them either.
If they kill me, — so, now flyl"
"That is not enough, dear Hetty —
I must die, or you deceive —
You're a child, and if you told them
They would without doubt believe."
*' Cousin I cousin I" cried she quickly,
" Qet beneath my linen here,
And I'll stand beedde and sprinkle.
When your enemies appear."
"It's the only chance now, Hetty,
And I'll get down, as you say" —
So, beneath the web of linen.
Straight upon the grass he lay.
In the farm-house first they sought him,
Then in anger rode away,
Passing Hetty in the meadow,
Where the linen hid their prey.
"Child," the British captain questioned,
" Bid you see a man run by ?"
"Yes, sir," said poor frightened Hetty,
Longing in her heart to fly.
" Which way?" sternly asked the soldier.
" Sir, I promised not to say."
" Then Fll make you," swore the captain ;
" So be quick, and show the way."
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 2t6
'* But I said that if you killed me,
I'd be brave and never tell,"
Sobbed the truthful little maiden.
While her tears in showers fell.
Then began a smooth-tongued Tory;
"Let me speak to her," said he —
"Are you little Hetty Marvyn?"
" Yes, I'm Hetty, sir," said she.
"Then it was your mother's cousin,
Governor G , who went past here ?
We are friends — so tell us, Hetty —
Oome I you see you need not fear."
" Cousin told me he was flying—
That he ran his life to save" —
" That's it, Hetty, now where is he ?
We must help him, he's so brave."
His smooth speech could not deceive her,
But she answered in this way —
" To his boat, down at the river,
He must go, I heard him say.
«>
" And he wanted me to tell you
That he went to catch the mail —
Else he said that you would take him,
And his plan for flight would fail."
"Then why did you disobey him?"
Asked the leader of the spies :
"'Twas a lie— I could not tell it,"
Hetty said with tearful eyes.
276 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE 0KE8,
" Yon're a good girl," mid the Tory,
^ Not to tell what was nntrae^
When yon said so to yonr consin,
What did he next say to yonr
""He said, 'Surely, little Hetty,
You would not a friend hetray' —
And he hegged me still to tdl yon
He had gone the other way."
"Then yon promised," asked the Tory,
"Not to tell which way he fled.
Even if our men should kill yon —
Is that, Hetty, what yon said?
" Well, yon are a brave ^1, Hetty :
I suppose he told yon so,
And then started for the river
Fast as ever he could go ?"
" That I promised not to tell yon,"
Little Hettie still did say.
" Oh I yes, I forgot I but tell us
His last wordsy and we'll away."
" Ifi the only chance now, Hetty,
And ril get down as you say,^^
That is all I have to tell yoo,
It's the last he said to-day."
If they rightly understood her,
All was lost, poor Hetty knew,
But she hoped the God of heaven
Would reward her speaking true.
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 217
She was right, for quick they started,
Dashing down the river trail,
Just in time to see two boatmen
Glide down stream with flying sail.
They, supposing they had loitered
Till the governor reached his men,
Eode away in sullen anger,
Each one to his home again.
Long time after, when the governor
Found once more a peaceful home,
He took means to keep in memory
Hetty's truth all time to come ;
For he named his little daughter,
Bom while he was doomed to die.
For the child whose truth preserved him
When for life he had to fly.
ViKELAKD, Aug., 1862.
The Little Huguenot.
(For the Children.)
My story is of Normandy,
Across the isle- gemmed English sea,
A province of fair France,
Where peasants grow the flax, flowered blue,
Plant gardens in the sun and dew.
Quaff wine, and sing and dance.
2t8 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
A Norman fanner once had land,
A-near the English Channel strand,
A pleasant, peaceful spot.
Only it was haunted By a fear
Of threatened danger drawing near
The fated Huguenot
The Norman's sons (he had but two)
Were strong and manly, brave and true ;
His wife an invalid ;
But Magdalen, the light of home.
Shining in the ancestral room.
The cloud of evil hid.
The old farm horse, one summer day.
Accoutred in his best array
Of sheepskin colored blue.
With worsted fringe of scarlet die.
And wooden saddle peaked and high,
Up to the horse-block drew.
His master, slow with weight of years,
Grave with his sixty winters' cares.
Mounted to ride away,
While Magdalen danced on the sod.
Kissing her hand with many a nod
And word of parting, gay.
He rode away, thinking the ill
Lay in the distant future, still —
And thinking thus, had peace ;
So journeyed on the poor old man,
Beguiling time with some good plan,
Home comforts to increase.
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 279
But entering in the small French town,
He thought old faces, weather-brown,
Seemed wrinkled with new care ;
For like himself, farm-friends had come
To buy, for winter meat at home,
Fat cattle at the fair.
But news of cruel Catholic deeds
Efiaced the thought of homely needs,
In households that must part;
And the poor Norman's horse bore back,
Over the toilsome, hilly track,
A broken, Christian heart.
Himself and sons could give up all —
Bearing whatever might befall,
With courage, grace, and faith ;
But the edict contained one clause
That pierced his very soul, because
On Magdalen fell its wrath.
From that worst evil, he would brave
All danger, if thereby he'd save
His tender little one ;
For should he suffer at the stake.
The priests his Magdalen would take
To be a Catholic nun.
He hurried on ; home came in view —
The stable-path his old horse knew —
The father let him run ;
So glad was he to hear a laugh,
And see sweet Magdalen still safe.
Playing out in the sun.
280 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
The Hogaenot, with tears like rain,
Told to his wife the tale of pain,
Asking what should they do?
She said, " From Granville, without fail,
That night a fishing-smack would sail,
And friends were of the crew.
'* They'd talked that day of their afl&irs.
Of shipping apples and good pears
. To isles where failed the crop;
The captain was their sons' true friend —
'Twere safe with him the child to send.
And 'twas the only hope."
" But oh ! to part from all we prize —
From Aer, the apple of our eyes !"
The poor old father cried.
" Marie, it drives my hrain all wild ;
Who is to take our precious child
Upon the English side ?"
" God will he father to her then.
And give her hack, perchance, again,
If we from France can flee ;
But if that cannot he God's will,
She shall he trained for heaven still.
And saved eternally.
" Then haste, dear husband, give her up—
There's sweetness in the bitter cup—
There's joy in duty done :
Going, she keeps her Bible yet ;
Staying, all good she must forget,
And be a Catholic nnn."
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 281
The weary horse was bronght once more,
All ready to the farm-hotise door,
And harnessed to the cart ;
And if a Papist looked, he saw
Only a mattress and some straw,
Bat not the hidden heart.
The mother gave her last caress —
The father, with sad tenderness,
Peeped where the child was hid,
And stroked her cheek, and smoothed her hair.
Laying his hardened hand with care
The pretty curls amid.
He took his flannel jacket off,
To make her cold feet warm enough.
And gave her cakes to eat ;
Striving such ways his grief to still,
He bared his poor breast to night's chill,
After the long day's heat.
Safely he bore her to the boat —
Safely he saw it set afloat
Upon the channel tide.
*' Bereaved of her, I am bereaved,"
Like aged Israel he grieved —
Went home, to bed, and died.
His lonely widow followed him.
With Jesus, through the valley dim.
Safe from the Papist's hand ;
And Magdalen, their rescued one.
Praised God beneath a milder sun,
In England's safer land.
October 20th, 1863.
282 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
A Christmas Story.
Kow listen, little Alice,
And baby Winnifred,
To this nice Christmas story
Of what a good child did.
Far away in Grermany,
A land beyond the sea.
They have, for all good children,
A tree, called '* Christmas-tree."
On Christmas evening, early.
Before the clock strikes nine,
The little wazen candles
Among the green leaves shine.
And there are many presents
Of candies, cakes, and toys,
Hanging upon the branches.
For little girls and boys.
Doll-babies in their cradles
Rock on the Christmas-tree,
And good things wrapped in papers,
That you would like to see.
Then every one is happy,
And every face is bright,
And all the smiling children
Call it a pretty sight
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 28d
But once in that old country
There was a poor lone boy,
Who got no Christmas presents,
And never had a toy.
And other little children
Told him about their things,
Brought by the Christmas Lady,
All dressed in white with wings.
So one day he sat thinking,
Wondering what he could do.
That on the coming Christmas
He might be happy too.
And while he thought and wondered,
It came into his mind
About the gentle Christ-child,
Who was so good and kind.
And so he wrote a letter,
Asking for Christmas things.
And said, ^^ Dear Christ, please send them
On the Christmas Lady's wings."
He put it in the office.
And never had a doubt
But that the loving Christ-child
Would surely take it out.
But when the good postmaster
Looked at the poor boy's note.
Directed " To the Christ-child,"
He wondered what he wrote.
284 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
And 80 he read the letter,
And laid it on a shelf,
SayiDg that he would answer
The little boy hmisel£
And true enough, that Christmas
The poor child's heart was glad.
For every thing he asked for
On Christmas Eve he had.
Because he loved the Saviour,
And did his words believe,
God made him very happy
Upon that Christmas Eve.
And though his little letter
Could not to heaven go,
Jesus knew what was in it,
And would not answer "no."
He made the kind postmaster
Become the poor boy's friend ;
And so 'twas really Jesus
Who did the good gifts send.
Chrittmat Eve.
Chbistmas Eve.
On Christmas Eve, full fifteen years ago.
The Yule-logs lighted with a ruddy glow
The pine-floored kitchen of a prairie home ;
Hack to the farthest comer of the room
i.
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 285
Fled the sad shadows from the laughing light —
Unbidden guests were they on Christmas night.
Upon that eve, small hands were occupied
"With hanging up the stockings, side by side, —
Four tiny stockings, empty, clean, and fresh.
Shaped by a mother's hand for dainty flesh.
The brown-eyed baby's, knit of scarlet wool,
We prayed to find on Christmas morning full.
The next and merriest of the band of boys
Sent up the chimney shouts for Santa Olaus.
While one, with eyes like mother's, darkly blue,
Named gifts for all the gay and happy crew.
And I, the only girl amid the band.
Lent, here and there, a busy, hindering hand —
Flattering my restless little heart, the while,
That »uch great help was what made mother smile.
Then, too, our voices in a chorus rang.
And we impromptu Christmas carols sang.
" Christmas is coming I" — ^this, my favorite glee.
Each brother echoed back with cheers thrice three.
" Christmas is coming I" sang the blue-eyed one,
Scarce more than baby, though the eldest son.
286 LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
^^ What kind of lady is she, mamma, say ?
And is she coming here to spend the day ?"
Sweet, earnest questioner I I see him yet —
Who could such pretty seriousness forget?
At once, like merry bells our voices chimed,
But mother-looks rebuked the mirth ill-timed,
And thus she answered : " Christmas was the time
When Jesus came down from the heavenly clime ;
^^ When in a Bethlehem manger he had birth,
And lived to suffer for the sins of earth.''
Ah I never yet was sweeter story told.
To lead earth's straying lambs to Christ's safe fold.
And by the burning Yule-logs heaping high,
That Christmas Eve, full fifteen years gone by,
It was repeated o'er and o'er again :
Oh I that we listened to it now as then 1
Oh I that the blue-eyed boy to manhood grown.
Loved the sweet story as in years agone I
Oh I that the brown-eyed baby, now in youth,
Would from a mother's lips still learn the truth ;
And he, the merry mischief, changed by pain.
Look, to be healed, on Him who once was slain 1
Would that my heart, world-hardened though it be,
Could lift the veil of unbelief and see,
LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 287
By fwth unquestioning, the perfect love
That brought the Lord of Glory from above I
Would that my children ne'er, in after years,
O'er blind heart wanderings should pour out tears I
I ask, O Christ, that thou wilt hear this prayer —
Take these beloved ones into thy kind care.
Each erring one, dear Christ, I humbly plead,
May yet be drawn to feel a Saviour's need.
And ere another Christmas day comes round,
May every one within thy fold be found.
^
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